


Dead on Page One

by WatMcGregor



Series: Dead in the Next Chapter [1]
Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatMcGregor/pseuds/WatMcGregor
Summary: Ben's a hotshot crime novelist who never lets anyone get too close. Could that be about to change when he needs a new personal assistant?
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Series: Dead in the Next Chapter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082711
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Dead on Page One

This woman in front of him, she would be dead on page one.  
Ben Mitchell stifles a yawn and waits for her to reach a natural pause. She ‘s explaining how his work has had a profound emotional effect on her and she hasn’t drawn breath for the last three, no four…five sentences. Six, now. His editor would throw a fit if he turned in an unpunctuated monologue like that.  
He zones out and tries to decide how many inches long her legs are; how many inches long is the skirt that just about covers her modesty. He attempts to calculate the ratio of skirt to leg and decides it must be around one to four. One inch of skirt to four inches of leg. A total of eight inches of skirt to a total of thirty-two inches of leg.  
She’s the sort of character who would die on page one of any of his novels. Pretty, skinny, nothing of interest to say, young and naïve. She probably wouldn’t even get a line of dialogue, which is kind of ironic. Certainly not the person he’s currently looking for. No, hers would be the murder that kicked it all off, to be followed by another two or three before the story reached its denouement. The guy Ben had seen before her, well he’d be the prime suspect until he too met a grisly end, two thirds of the way in. That guy had been cocky and handsome, far too self-assured. He’d told Ben he thought he probably had a novel in himself too, and working as Ben’s assistant would be a golden opportunity to get access to agents and publishers who’d need to meet him only the once to develop a desperation to market him as the next big thing.  
Ben is the next big thing, and has been for the last five years, and he’s not about to make room for some cocksure wannabe. He just wants an assistant who will be attentive to his needs, not an arsehole who’s looking for a bit of self-promotion. He’d killed the guy off after only half an hour - metaphorically speaking, of course - and it looks like blondie here is about to go the same way.  
“Well, that’s very interestin’,” says Ben, shuffling the papers on his lap and sitting forward in his chair. “I’ve got a few more candidates to see, so I’ll be in touch, soon as I can make a decision.”  
“Oh!” Blondie trails off mid-sentence, probably with an ellipsis rather than a full stop, and her perky smile falters, but only for only a second. She pastes it back on and reaches to shake his hand, her back arching and her arm held out straight in a manner that looks practised. Ben wonders if she’d posed in front of a mirror to get it absolutely right.  
He gives her hand a brief shake and then walks her to the door.  
“Well, you have my number,” says blondie, with a widening of her eyes that suggests she’s hoping he’ll use it for less… professional… reasons.  
“I certainly do,” agrees Ben with an inner grimace and a wide fake smile. “Mind how ya go now.”  
Blondie trips across the reception area and disappears into one of the lifts, and Ben exchanges a look with the receptionist, a petite, dark-haired woman who’s been working at Pendle and Grafton, Ben’s publishers, for longer than he’s been on their list.  
“Get us a coffee before ya send the next one in, would ya Ruby?”  
“Course. He’s only just buzzed up from downstairs,” says Ruby. “She throws him a conspiratorial grin. “Sounded in a bit of a flap.”  
Ben rolls his eyes. “Great. Sounds promising. Not.”  
“Not goin’ well?” asks Ruby.  
“I’ve ‘ad more enjoyable days cleanin’ me bathroom,” says Ben.  
“Yeah, and your bathroom’s probably that big it would take ya a day to clean it too, ain’t it?” she asks. “If ya did it yerself.”  
Ben throws her a sarcastic smile but doesn’t bother rising to the bait. To tell the truth, his bathroom is pretty big, in keeping with the proportions of the rest of his five-bed penthouse apartment, and he does employ a cleaner, and he’s not going to apologise for it. He worked bloody hard to make the money he’s made, and he deserves to spend it on exactly what he wants. “I swear half the people I’ve seen are groupies,” he says. “How d’ya think they worked out it was me advertisin’ for a personal assistant?”  
She shrugs sympathetically and whatever reply she was formulating is cut off by the phone ringing. She turns to pick up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Pendle and Grafton, how may I help you?” she asks in a telephone voice that’s very different to her everyday voice.  
Ben makes a face at her and wanders behind the wide beechwood reception desk to fix his own coffee from the industrial-sized coffee machine, reflecting that the profits from his first novel probably paid for both the desk and the coffee machine. And Ruby’s salary, come to that.  
The lift nearest the desk pings and a tall dark-haired man steps out into the reception area, peering around himself with wide eyes as he wipes rainwater from his face. He’s wearing a dark suit that is clearly drenched, and the white shirt underneath it is wrinkled with rainwater too.  
“Still rainin’ then?” asks Ben, smirking.  
“Uh, yeah,” says the bloke, clearly taking it for a serious question. “Um, is this…” he consults a soggy piece of paper in his hand, “Pendle and Grafton?”  
“It is,” agrees Ben, rounding the desk and leaning against it with his hands in his pockets. “Who ya here to see?”  
“Um. A Mr Mitchum?”  
Ben wonders if the bloke is asking him or telling him. “Mitchum? I don’t think we’ve got no one here by that name.”  
The bloke consults his piece of paper again, a frown crinkling his forehead.” “Oh! No, not Mitchum. Mitchell. Ben Mitchell.”  
Ruby finishes her phone call and exchanges a look with Ben. “Go back in yer office, I’ll deal with this.”  
Ben smirks and does as she tells him. As he closes the door he hears Ruby asking how she can help. Ben’s got a sneaking suspicion the bloke’s beyond help.  
A minute later the door opens and Ruby gives him a look that says play nice. “Callum Highway for you Mr Mitchell.”  
“Thank you Ruby.”  
She steps aside and Ben steeples his fingers under his chin as he waits for the bloke to walk across the office and sit in the chair opposite him.  
“Shit!” the bloke says as he sits down and realises who he’s come to see. Then he remembers the etiquette. He stands up again and holds out a hand. “I’m so sorry Mr Mitchell.”  
Ben shakes his hand briefly. “For bein’ totally clueless who ya was here to see, or fer startin’ yer interview with an expletive?”  
“Either,” says the bloke. “Both. I’m sorry.” He squeezes a little more water out of his hair and wipes his hand on his trousers, then takes a deep breath. “Sorry. Can we start again? Thank you for makin’ time to see me, Mr Mitchum – Mitchell! Mr Mitchell.”  
Ben suppresses a smile. This bloke is hilarious. If nothing else, the next half an hour or so might be quite entertaining, might brighten up Ben’s day.  
“Right,” he says, snapping to business. “I’ll tell ya a bit about meself.” He refrains from adding because you clearly have no idea. “I’m Pendle and Grafton’s number one bestselling crime author, and have been for the last five years. I’ve published six books and - ”  
“Blimey! That’s more than one a year,” supplies the bloke.  
Ben blinks at him. “Uh, yeah. Well, not quite, cos I had two under me belt before they started publishin’ me, so – you know, I ‘ad a head start. And the first one didn’t sell so well, so, on their list for seven years and best-sellin’ for five.”  
The bloke nods energetically, hanging on his every word.  
“I spend half me year writin’, and half on the promotional side of things, and that’s where this role comes in. The one you’ve applied for,” he prompts, when met with a blank gaze from the bloke.  
“Uh… oh! Yeah!” exclaims the bloke.  
“Book tours, signings, literature festivals, crime conventions, that kind of thing. I’m in demand,” says Ben, encouraged to lay it on thick by the wide-eyed look the bloke is giving him. “I need someone to organise me schedule, take care of all the admin. Hotel bookin’s, transport, liaising with bookers and the like. Keepin’ the crazies away from me.”  
The bloke frowns. “The crazies?”  
“The obsessed fans; the ones who think I’m layin’ a trail of clues in me books that’s solely for them. Secret messages, that kind of thing.”  
The bloke looks vaguely alarmed.  
“You ever read any of me stuff?” asks Ben, knowing even as he formulates the words that he probably shouldn’t have asked.  
“Uh, I think so,” says the bloke. “That one about the SAS. What was it called?” He furrows his brow. “Bravo somethin’ or another?”  
“Bravo Two Zero?” asks Ben.  
The bloke points at him, his face creasing in pleasure. “That’s the one!”  
“That was Andy McNab,” says Ben drily.  
The bloke shrinks back in his seat. “Shit!” he says under his breath.  
Ben crosses to the bookshelf on the other side of the office and pulls out his latest offering, Time for Darkness, from a whole row of them. “Here, take this.”  
“You sure?” asks the bloke, holding the book when Ben hands it over as if it’s the holy grail and he’s afraid of breaking it. He flicks through the pages, stopping every now and again to read a few sentences, then glances up at Ben again. “D’ya want me to pay for it?”  
Ben snorts. “I think I can probably give it ya as a freebie. Don’t think it’s gonna bankrupt me.”  
“Thanks Mr Mit…chell.” The bloke concentrates hard on getting the name right. He looks like he’s just been given the best present he’s ever received in his life. Although even Ben isn’t conceited enough to think that’s actually the case.  
Is he?  
No, course he isn’t. It might be a close-run thing though.  
“So what makes ya think yer qualified for this post?” he asks.  
The bloke sits forward, clearly thinking himself on safer ground. “Well, I bin in the army for seven years, and after that I bin workin’ as a bodyguard so I’m pretty sure I can help ya with the crazies. I’m used to travellin’ around, bein’ at the beck and call of me boss.” He shrugs, coming to the end of his pitch. “Oh! An’ I’m patient and easy-goin’,” he says, with the air of someone who’s reciting what his best friend or his mother told him to say. “And tactful.”  
“Open-minded?” asks Ben.  
“Err, yeah, I think so.”  
“Good, cos you’ll see all sorts. An’ I’ll need ya to turn a blind eye, you get me?”  
“Course. I’m the soul of discretion.”  
“I’ve got a certain image to maintain,” continues Ben. “I’m a bit like the detective in me books. Hard-livin’, macho, don’t suffer fools gladly. A tough guy, you understand?”  
“Ooo-kay,” says the bloke slowly, a frown creasing his forehead. “An’ yer sayin’ yer not really like that?”  
“No. Yes! Course I’m like that. But I’m also more than that. There’s another side to me that the rest of the world don’t need to know about.” Ben thinks back to the last set of stories that appeared about him in the tabloids, the headlines. ‘Love rat’ Ben Mitchell, cheating on yet another beautiful woman, with her sister this time; drugs; hard living. He’s the first crime author who’s more celebrity than author, probably due to his bad-boy good looks and the fact that he’s prodigiously talented, having reached the position he’s in now by the age of thirty. His books are good. He hasn’t come by his publishing deal by virtue of his looks alone, but he knows his worth, whether that’s in writing talent or his ability to capture the imagination of the public: the men wanting to be like him, the women wanting to be fucked by him. Possibly some of the men, too, if the adoring gazes of some of his fans at fiction conventions are anything to go by. “Nobody is exactly how they’re portrayed in the media. I gotta keep a little part of meself back from all that. Otherwise I’d go insane.”  
“Yer from the east end?” asks the bloke. He waves his hands around. “Yer accent.”  
“Yeah.” Ben bites back a laugh. This guy clearly has done no homework for this interview in the slightest.  
“Me too! Which part?”  
“Uh, Walford,” says Ben, wrong-footed by the turn the interview seems to be taking.  
“I’m not far from there.”  
“I don’t live there anymore,” says Ben. “Got out soon as I could.”  
“You didn’t like it? Why not?”  
Ben takes a deep breath. “What would ya do if ya caught a fan hangin’ around outside me hotel room?” He has to get this interview back on track somehow.  
The bloke blinks. “Oh! Uh, I’d tell ‘em I’d just seen ya down in reception askin’ if yer reservation for a particular restaurant had been made.”  
It’s Ben’s turn to blink. The lie had just rolled off the bloke’s tongue without a second thought. Maybe there’s hidden depths to this… he glances down at the application form in his lap… Callum Highway.  
“OK. What would ya do if I turned up at me destination but me luggage turned up on the other side of the world?”  
“I’d go out and buy ya everythin’ ya needed.” Callum looks Ben up and down appraisingly. “I’d say you was, what? Five foot nine? Waist thirty-four inches, inside leg…” he tips his head to one side. “Probably about twenny-nine inches. Am I right?”  
Ben takes a breath. His pulse has picked up and he feels a slight flush on his cheeks. “’Bout that,” he says, clearing his throat at the same time. This guy isn’t another stalker, is he? Is the apparent lack of awareness of who Ben is just a carefully rehearsed routine?  
“I used to work at a gentleman’s outfitter,” says Callum. “Before I went in the army. It was me Saturday job.”  
OK, so not a stalker. Unless… Ben narrows his eyes. It would be a pretty elaborate cover story if the bloke was a stalker. Worthy of one of Ben’s characters.  
“I can eye up any bloke and pretty much guess his measurements,” continues Callum.  
Ben raises an eyebrow. “That right? Eye up a lot of blokes, do ya?”  
At that, Callum blushes. “Well, no… uh - ”  
“I’ve got a tour comin’ up,” says Ben, to spare him his embarrassment. What? Since when has he ever sought to spare someone embarrassment? Must be getting soft in his old age. “The US. They love me over there, go wild for it. Personal appearances, a couple of conventions and a couple of TV appearances. It starts in a month’s time. How quickly can you be available? If ya get the job, of course.”  
“Well, I’m between contracts at the moment,” says Callum. “I work through an agency, so I can just tell ‘em not to line me up for anythin’ else. If I get the job.”  
“How’s yer organisational skills?”  
“Top notch!” Callum grins, nodding his head to reinforce his answer.  
“Yeah? Cos ya looked a bit disorganised when ya come through the door earlier.”  
The grin fades. “Oh, yeah, well that was cos I’d had to get involved in an altercation at the tube station. Made me a bit late.”  
“What kind of an altercation?”  
“Some bloke tried to nick a woman’s bag. He ran off down towards the Jubilee line, I gave chase. Then when I apprehended him, got the bag back, the woman weren’t nowhere to be seen. I ‘ad to wait an age for the cops to turn up an’ all.” Callum rolls his eyes, inviting Ben to share in his frustration. “Once I finally got out the tube station it was bleedin’ pourin’ down. Sorry, no expletives! It was pourin’ down. I got drenched.”  
“Huh,” says Ben. The guy’s clearly a fantasist. Oh well, it was certainly an experience chatting with him. “Right, well I gotta make a decision now. I’ve seen quite a few candidates, so someone from me office’ll be in touch with ya in the next day or so if you’ve bin successful.” He gathers his papers together. “Any questions?”  
“Yeah, I do have one,” says Callum. “How d’ya do it?”  
Ben frowns. “Do what?”  
“Write like this.” Callum waves the book at him. “There’s proper grammar in ‘ere an’ everything. You don’t talk like ya write.”

The rain is easing off as Ben makes his way down through the building and out onto the street. He’s exhausted, and no nearer making a decision on who his next assistant will be than he was when he started that morning. He would’ve liked to have offered the job to that Callum bloke, if only for the sheer entertainment value, but the bloke had let himself down towards the end of the interview. Why make up stuff? Why not come clean and admit that he left home late and had to rush to get there?  
On the ground floor, Ben answers the concierge’s ‘Goodnight sir’ with a nod of his head and pulls his leather jacket tighter around himself as he steps through the revolving door. Outside, people are scurrying along the pavement, heads down, anxious to get home and out of the wet weather. Some still have umbrellas up and the tail-lights of the cars are reflected in the sheen of the wet road. Ben heads for the tube station. It’s something he prides himself on, retaining his common touch. Not for him expensive limousines. No, he still takes public transport. It’s where he gets a lot of his ideas for his characters. It’s why the critics always praise the realism of his stories.  
He catches the eye of one of the Transport for London employees as he waits in line for the ticket barrier. “Oi, mate,” he asks. “Did ya have a bit of bother here earlier?”  
The bloke frowns at him, but then his expression clears. “Oh, yeah guv. Some woman had her bag stolen. A bloke gave chase and got it back. Total hero, man.”  
“Huh,” thinks Ben. As he follows the stream of commuters onto the platform and then on to a train, leaning against the screen near the door because there are no seats, he tries to work out what type of character Callum would be in one of his books. He was good-looking. Tall, dark and handsome, definitely not a victim. Maybe a new recruit. A rookie cop Ben could take under his wing. Cultivate; develop a relationship with .  
Did he say ‘Ben’?  
He meant Foxton Thwaite, the protagonist of his novels.

TWO  
Ben curses as the buzzer sounds for the second time. The idiot’s early this time. Can he not introduce a bit of moderation into his life, turn up bang on time instead of early or in a flap because he’s running late? Ben ties a towel around his waist and crosses to press the button on the intercom that will release the doors on the lift to enable Callum to take the short ride up to his flat at the top of the building. Most people don’t make it this far. The Chinese businessmen and Russian oligarchs who own the flats on the floors beneath him only get to ride as far as floor eighteen. Ben is the only one who can enable access to floor nineteen, like a cloud-bethroned king bestowing favours on the chosen few.  
He’s not entirely sure Callum is one of the chosen few yet. The jury’s still out on Mr Highway, but he was the best of a bad bunch. They set off for the US next week, so the bloke’s going have to prove himself pretty quick. Ben had decided to issue him with a six month contract just in case he didn’t work out, so at least he’s got a get-out clause if the bloke proves annoyingly, embarrassingly incompetent. Six months of playing nice before he dumps him at the airport the second they land back on British soil. It’s going to be a strain, but Ben’s setting out with good intentions. He’s all about challenging himself.  
He crosses to the sunken seating area in the corner of his living room that runs the width of the building, floor to ceiling glass giving a view out over the city. There’s a residual smattering of white powder on the glass-topped coffee table, and he quickly brushes it onto the deep-pile carpet, sucking the side of his hand to hoover up any that adheres to it. He’d entertained last night. Sent the kid away once he’d done what he needed him to, and his muscles are aching gently in that way that tells Ben he’s been given a very satisfying seeing-to. Should last him for a week or so, until the urge creeps up on him again.  
There’s a tap on the door and he crosses back over to open it for Callum. He sees his eyes widen at the sight of Ben’s naked torso, water still glistening on his chest from his shower. Huh, so maybe the bloke does spend his days eyeing up other blokes. That was definitely a reaction there.  
Ben rubs a hand over his nipples and wipes it on the towel that’s only just covering his modesty, pushing it just a little lower as he does so, and watching with discreet glee as the bloke’s eyes follow his actions before coming to rest, momentarily, on the front of his towel.  
Callum clears his throat, and his eyes snap back up to Ben’s face. “Uh, mornin’.”  
“Mornin’,” says Ben. “You’ve caught me without any clothes. Make yerself at home and let me just go and remedy that.” He waves across to the leather couches, arranged in a horseshoe in the seating area, and Callum heads in their direction, whistling softly to himself as he sees the view from the windows. “Blimey, that’s impressive.” He changes direction and stands looking out over the city-scape spread out below. “You can probably see me house from here. Well, I say house. Flat. I live in a flat. Well, did, until I” -  
He peers round at Ben and grins sheepishly. “You don’t want me life story, do ya?”  
“Not really,” Ben agrees. “I‘ll just go an’…” He waves in the direction of his bedroom, and removes his towel just before he disappears through the door, hearing another panicked throat-clearing from Callum as he does so. He rolls his eyes to himself when he’s safely alone again. It’s just so easy…Everyone is just so easy…

“Right,” says Ben, business-like once he’s dressed and they’re comfortably settled on the couches with a cafetiere and two mugs in front of them. “I just wanted to go over some of the last minute arrangements with ya, see if we can’t reach an understandin’ about how we’re gonna work together.”  
“Yeah, of course Mr Mitchell.” Callum sits forward, all bright eyes and attentive expression.  
“You can’t be much older than me, can ya?” asks Ben.  
“Uh, no I guess not. I’m thirty-four.”  
“Right, well ya can’t call me Mr Mitchell for the next six months, can ya? Makes me sound like a stiff. It’s Ben, alright?”  
“Alright, yeah, thanks Ben.”  
“Did the PR department send you the itinerary?”  
“Yeah!” Callum fumbles with the rucksack he’s brought with him. “They sent me a whole load of stuff, gonna fill one suitcase I should think.”  
He grins across at Ben, and Ben smiles politely in recognition that the bloke was trying to make a joke. He really hopes the bloke isn’t going to be one of those people who are overawed by his fame. He gets a lot of them around him, men and women who kow-tow to his every whim as if there can be no greater pleasure in life than to prostrate themselves in front of him and invite him to use them in any way he chooses. Some of them are old enough to be his dad, and those are the really embarrassing ones, although he does admit to feeling a frisson of satisfaction about them. Maybe even a bit of superiority.  
“I’ve run through it all several times and I think I’m on top of it,” continues Callum. “I’ve drawn up a spreadsheet too.”  
Ben blinks at him. “A spreadsheet?”  
“Yeah!” Callum unfurls an A3 sheet of paper covered in minute boxes and even smaller text. “This maps out the entire trip, from meetin’ at the airport next Tuesday to arrivin’ back in August. Travel, venues, phone calls I gotta make to confirm arrangements, times I’ll havta order cars, food. Everythin’, it’s all covered.”  
Jesus! Ben can see the chances of actually enjoying this trip fast disappearing. The bloke’s a closet accountant and that’s never going to sit well with someone like Ben, whose life is steered by a mixture of whims, distractions and simple bloody-mindedness. He eyes Callum carefully. “You ever smoked weed, Callum?”  
“Um, what?” Callum glances up from his spreadsheet. “Not very often. Only once or twice.”  
Ben jumps up and heads to the kitchen area. “Right, stay there. I’m about to reacquaint you with the best relaxant known to man. Well, apart from sex, of course.”  
He digs in the drawer under the microwave and pulls out a baggie in which are a couple of ready-rolled joints and some loose buds, then digs around again until his fingers close over a lighter.  
“Right!” he exclaims, heading back to the couches. “Smoke this with me.”  
Callum is looking nervous. “You sure? Won’t it… uh…” he looks like he’s casting round for an excuse not to. “Won’t it set the smoke alarms off?”  
“Nope,” says Ben, lighting up and taking a long drag, then leaning his head back on the couch. “I’ve had ‘em set at just the right sensitivity. Burning toast, yeah, they’ll go off like a foghorn. Gently smouldering weed, not so much.” His voice sounds gravelly as the smoke hits the back of his throat, and he hands the joint off to Callum.  
Callum holds it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and takes the tiniest of drags.  
“S’ good stuff that,” says Ben. “Don’t waste it by messin’ around. Take a good hard suck.”  
He smiles to himself as Callum’s face turns a pleasing shade of pink, and then watches as Callum does as he’s told. “I, uh, I’m not too keen on smokin’,” says Callum in a rough voice. He clears his throat before taking another drag. “If I’m gonna take this stuff I prefer hash brownies. Goes down easier.”  
Ben spits out a laugh. His instincts were right, this bloke is hilarious, and what’s more, he doesn’t even realise it. “Goes down easier?” he echoes. “You, Callum Highway, are a tonic!”  
Callum passes the joint back to him, looking pleased and a little sheepish at the same time, as if he’s glad to have made Ben laugh but not entirely sure he isn’t the butt of the joke.  
They finish their preparations for the forthcoming trip with a pleasing lack of reference to Callum’s spreadsheet, and call it a day just before lunchtime.  
“God, I’m starvin’” says Callum as he’s packing up his paperwork and shoving it back into his rucksack.  
“Yeah? Got the munchies, have ya?” asks Ben.  
“Think I might have.”  
Ben is hit with the sudden realisation that, once the wheels had been oiled with a little weed, Callum had been quite good company, and he finds he’s got little enthusiasm for an afternoon alone in his apartment. “Tell ya what,” he says. “Why don’t we go out for some food? There’s a lovely little Greek place just round the corner.”  
“I dunno,” says Callum, looking dubious. “It’s gonna be expensive round here, ain’t it?”  
Ben rolls his eyes. “I’m payin’.”  
“Oh! Right, well, if ya don’t mind.”  
They make their way to the door and Ben picks up his wallet and keys from the table next to it. “I can tell yer gonna break me, Callum. ‘S gonna cost me a fortune to have you around, ain’t it?”

Ben tucks his collar up round his chin and sinks further into his seat, eyes closed. Beside him, Callum flicks through a music magazine as the flight announcements come thick and fast over the tannoy, quieter and less nasal-sounding here in the VIP lounge than they would be in the main concourse that’s set aside for the hoi-polloi.  
As they’d entered, following close behind the hospitality officer who’d been assigned to them – well, to Ben, in truth – he’d spotted the singer of a hot current band in the corner, and someone he thought might be a TV presenter sitting close by, in between a few important-looking businessmen. He’d picked out seats for himself and Callum as far away from the others as he could, and made good use of the complimentary bar while they waited.  
He’d had another night of it last night. Two male models, no less, and the substances and champagne had flowed steadily, with the result that he was nursing a very tender head this morning. He’ll have to remind himself not to pick models again. Most of the drinking he’d done had been to help him overlook the fact that he was decidedly the ugly duckling in their little trio, and it wasn’t a feeling that sat well with him.  
Luckily Callum had picked up on his mood almost immediately, and he’s been the soul of discretion, only speaking when spoken to and slotting into his role as chief organiser seamlessly. Ben opens his eyes to a narrow slit and sees that some bloke has sat himself directly opposite them. He gazes around the lounge at all the empty seats and throws a pointed look at the bloke. He’s tubby and balding, squeezed into his expensive suit and sweating in the heat of the airport.  
He sees Ben’s glance and takes it as encouragement. He sits forward. “Excuse me Mr Mitchell, I hope you don’t mind me being a little forward, but I’m a big fan. Big fan.”  
Ben closes his eyes again as Callum leans towards the bloke. “Sorry sir, Mr Mitchell’s feeling a little poorly. Thank you for your interest but he needs his rest.”  
“Of course!” Ben can just imagine the apologetic look on the bloke’s face. Apology mixed with regret that he’s not going to be able to engage him in conversation. “I’m so sorry. I hope you feel better soon, Mr Mitchell.”  
Ben opens his eyes again to give the bloke a brief, half-hearted smile, and then closes them again.  
“Ta,” he says to Callum in an undertone.  
“’S alright,” says Callum. “You gonna be like this all trip?”  
“Like what?” Ben opens his eyes. The businessman has retreated back to the other side of the lounge, from where he’s giving Ben puppy-dog eyes.  
“Half-cut,” says Callum. “You ain’t gonna enjoy it much if yer nursin’ a hangover for the next six months.”  
Ben stares round at him in astonishment. “Which is it, Callum? Half-cut or hungover? Can’t be both.”  
The look Callum throws back at him is defiant. “Depends how much ya drunk last night, don’t it?”  
Ben is speechless. For once. He’s paying this bloke’s wages. The least he could do is show a bit of deference. Ben is not used to attitude in his employees. Attitude is his preserve. Nevertheless, he feels a faint shiver of arousal at the expression on Callum’s face. He opens his mouth to tell him to watch his step, but can’t find it in himself to reprimand him. “Yer me personal assistant, not me wife,” he says instead. It’s a feeble comeback, and his voice sounds a little whiny, even to his own ears. He folds his arms tighter around himself and shuts his eyes again.  
“I, uh… I read yer book you give me,” says Callum after a couple of minute’s silence.  
“Oh, we still doin’ this, are we?” asks Ben.  
“Doin’ what?”  
“Talking.”  
He can imagine the look of disappointment and disgust Callum is probably giving him right now without having to see it. Well fuck him! He’s nobody. If Ben wants to be rude, he can be rude. He’s earned that right. He’s a talent, and creative talents like him don’t have to answer to anyone.  
“The main character, the detective, he’s a right piece of work, ain’t he?” continues Callum. “Downright nasty to his son.”  
Ben shifts awkwardly and cracks an eye open to look round at the other man. He’s not looking disgusted or disappointed, just curious.  
“He based on anyone?”  
Ben huffs a laugh. “Oh god! If you only knew how many times I’ve bin asked that question, Callum. I ain’t never told anyone who he’s based on, an’ I probably never will. It ain’t important. I created ‘im, and that’s all there is to know.”  
“He’s got a bit of you in him,” observes Callum.  
And there he goes again! Judging Ben. “You don’t even know me,” he says, before closing his eyes tight again.

THREE  
This is getting ridiculous. Ben watches as the luggage carousel completes another full circuit. Still no sign of his suitcase. Callum’s had been one of the first to appear, when there was a scrummage around the carousel and travellers elbowing each other out of the way to get to their bags, but Ben’s is nowhere to be seen. Now, the crowds have dispersed and there’s only a small camouflage bag travelling repeatedly, forlorn in its isolation, up one side of the conveyor belt and down the other.  
“For fuck’s sake!” exclaims Ben, his head pounding from the combined effects of the alcohol he’s had in the last couple of days and the eight-hour flight into Washington DC. “How can they have lost it between the hold and the bleedin’ luggage carousel? Fuckin’ incompetent - ”  
“OK, calm down,” says Callum, looking worried. “Go and sit over there. I’ll find an official and get them to sort it out.”  
He wanders off in the direction of the desk and Ben stays exactly where he is, watching as some kid in his teens saunters over to the carousel and picks up the camouflage bag, looking too cool to hurry himself. Clearly some over-privileged trustafarian on a gap year. If he’d lost his bag, Ben’s willing to bet that daddy would just have bought him another one. A bigger, better one. Bagless apart from his carry-on rucksack – thankfully housing his laptop - Ben glowers out at the world from underneath his eyebrows and huffs a sigh.  
Callum comes back over to him, an airport official beside him speaking into a walkie-talkie. The official’s looking more apologetic the closer he gets.  
“I’m real sorry, sir,” he says, clipping the walkie-talkie back onto his belt. “It seems they’ve emptied the hold completely and there are no more bags to come up to the arrivals hall.”  
“But my suitcase - ”  
“What can we do?” asks Callum, cutting in before Ben can go off on one. “Is there some kind of compensation scheme?”  
“Well sure, I can get ya a form, sir. I really am very sorry about this.”  
“But it can’t just have disappeared into thin air!” exclaims Ben. “It’s round here somewhere, and you ain’t even tried to look for it.”  
“It appears it has, sir,” says the official, looking hurt. “And please don’t adopt that tone with me.”  
Ben pulls himself up to his full height. “Don’t adopt that tone with you? D’ya know who I am, ya little -?”  
“OK,” says Callum, stepping in front of Ben smartly. “Thank you for your time. If you could just let us have that form, we’ll be on our way.”  
“Certainly sir,” says the official, regarding Ben with a mixture of alarm and confusion, as if he’s not at all sure that he does know who he is, even though he’s clearly expected to. “Probably one of the other travellers picked up your bag in error, sir, and they’ll likely realise their mistake and bring it back. I would advise you call our lost property department in a couple of days before making a claim, just in case it turns up. We will expect you to have done that before you make your claim in any case.”  
“A couple of days!” exclaims Ben. “A couple of days? What am I supposed to do about kecks until then?”  
The official frowns. “Kecks, sir? I’m sorry, I don’t - ”  
“It don’t matter,” says Callum, still trying to contain the situation. “We’ll do what ya said, thank you for yer help.”  
The official returns to his desk and comes back brandishing a claim form. He wavers about who he should give it to, before clearly deciding Callum is the safest, more reasonable bet. “Here’s the number you need to call for lost property.” He circles the number on the form with his pen. “And here’s the address to return the completed form to. You have a nice day now.”  
“Have a nice day?” thunders Ben. “Have a nice day? I’ve lost me kecks! Are you havin’ a laugh, mate?”  
Callum grabs him by the elbow and steers him a safe distance away from the official, who retreats to his desk as quickly as he can.  
“Calm down,” says Callum, placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder and bending to look him straight in the eyes. “It ain’t the end of the world, is it? Mightta bin, if it was my bag, cos I ain’t got no money to replace everythin’, but you’ll be alright, won’t ya?” He laughs as a thought strikes him. “Thought that interview question ya give me was just a hypothetical. Didn’t realise you was describin’ me first test.”  
“It ain’t funny,” says Ben, breathing heavily and glaring at him.  
“OK, it ain’t funny,” agrees Callum easily.  
He’s annoyingly hard to wind up, and his cool, calm approach is frustrating Ben even further. “Can’t ya just look even a little bit annoyed?” he asks petulantly.  
He’s pretty sure Callum rolls his eyes, before adopting a look of mock annoyance so exaggerated that despite himself, Ben has to struggle to keep a straight face. “It ain’t funny!” he repeats, less heat in his words as he turns away and heads for the exit. He’s going to have to have a word with Callum. He’s not behaving how an employee should behave. There’s no deference, no respect. He’s acting like he’s on holiday with one of his mates, and it won’t do. It just won’t do at all.

“There’s bin some mistake,” says Callum as they check in to the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington. He holds up his own key card in one hand, and another card in the other. They’ve give me a card for your room too.”  
Ben rolls his eyes. “I asked ‘em to. You’ll be getting a spare key to all me rooms on this tour. Ya might need to get in while I’m busy workin’.” He points a stern finger at Callum. “Mind you knock before you come in though, I might be, uh, relaxin’.”  
“Ah, OK. “Callum turns back to the receptionist. “Is there a gentlemen’s outfitter we can ask to call on Mr Mitchell? His luggage went missin’ on the flight and he needs to replace a few bits and pieces.”  
“I’m sorry to hear that sir,” says the receptionist, the picture of concern. “I can make a few calls, no problem. Is there anyone in particular - ”  
“Fred Perry, I wear Fred Perry,” says Ben immediately, rolling his eyes at Callum once again. “‘Gentlemen’s outfitter’? I ain’t some Edwardian stiff with a pipe.”  
Callum shrugs and backs away towards the lift, throwing a smile of thanks at the receptionist. The look she gives him in return suggests she thinks he’s going to have his work cut out and bids him luck.

Ben is still grumbling when there’s a knock on the door of his room an hour later. Callum crosses to answer it to a young, good-looking man and a rack of clothes.  
The young man smiles widely. “Good afternoon, sir. Nathan at your service.”  
“Come in Nathan,” says Callum, smiling widely back.  
The man manoeuvres the clothes rack through the door and smiles, a little less widely, at Ben, who’s lounging on the bed. He doesn’t bother to get up.  
“This is Nathan,” says Callum.  
“Took yer time, says Ben.”  
“I came as quickly as I could sir,” says Nathan. He seems unphased by Ben’s comment, and Ben glares at him. Is no one showing him any deference anymore?  
“Well since yer finally here,” he says, waving an impatient hand at the rack of clothes. “I know what I want, ya don’t have to do yer sales pitch on me. Black jeans, three pairs. T-shirts, two burgundy, two black, two navy. Black socks, ten pairs. Kecks, ten pairs.”  
The man glances across at Callum. “Kecks?”  
“Underpants,” supplies Callum, to be rewarded with another wide smile that doesn’t go unnoticed by Ben.  
“I need a new suit, too, for the receptions we’ll be goin’ to. You got a decent one?” he asks Callum, jutting his chin at him.  
“Uh, no, ya didn’t say…”  
Ben rolls his eyes. “An’ one for him too. I’ll claim it as a business expense, uniform.”  
“Certainly sir,” says the man, looking Callum up and down in a manner that is not entirely professional. “I’d say you were around one meter eighty-nine?”  
“Thereabouts,” says Callum. As Ben watches, his cheeks take on a faint pink blush.  
Ben clears his throat. “An I’m five feet nine. Work that out in yer metres.”  
“Certainly sir,” says Nathan, the smile slipping a little from his face as he turns back to Ben. “We have a number of silk suits.” He pulls out two from the rack with a flourish. “There’s this one in Burgundy, or this one in a navy blue. That’s quite a stunner.”  
“I’ll take the burgundy and he’ll have the blue,” orders Ben. “Get ‘em delivered in our sizes by tomorrow. We’ve got an event tomorrow night.”  
“Certainly sir,” says Nathan, his eyes once again back on Callum. “I think I might just need to carry out a few measurements. Will you be wanting dress shirts and ties as well?”  
Ben throws a questioning look at Callum, and scoffs when he sees the reply in Callum’s apologetic expression. “You didn’t bring ANY?”  
“You never said!” protests Callum. “And besides, I knew it was gonna be hot here. Didn’t think I’d need ‘em.”  
Ben comforts himself with the thought that it’s only five months and twenty-eight days until he can dump this imbecile at the airport, and turns back to the other man with a long-suffering sigh. “Better order two shirts each for us, and throw in a couple of ties each too.”  
“Certainly sir. I’m sure we can provide complimentary ties. Will there be anything else, sir? Can I interest you in -?”  
“No, ya can’t,” says Ben. “Now I’m tired so I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Sort out the details with my assistant, and make sure everything’s with us by tomorrow morning, ya hear? Oh – and I’ll need a suitcase to carry everything. I’ll leave it up to you to choose. Special treat.” He grins obnoxiously at the man and then turns over so that his back is to them both.  
“I just need to carry out my measurements, sir.” Nathan takes a tape measure from his pocket and waves it at Ben’s back.  
“Five feet nine, inside leg twenty-nine inches, waist thirty-three, collar twenty -four,” supplies Ben without moving a muscle. “Anythin’ else?”  
“Er, no,” says Nathan, rushing to write everything down in a notebook that appears from his other pocket. He frowns at Callum and mouths “Waist?”  
“Thirty-three,” provides Callum. “You’d better measure me, I ain’t sure if I ain’t lost a little bit of weight lately.”  
From where his face is squashed into the pillow, Ben scoffs.  
“Certainly sir,” says Nathan. Ben doesn’t even need to turn round to imagine the smile that’s creeping over his face right then, like the cat that’s got the cream. He does turn over though, and watches the blush rise on Callum’s cheeks again as Nathan kneels in front of him to measure his inside leg, taking longer than a competent, experienced shop assistant probably ought to. Callum is very obviously ignoring Ben, the blush on his face getting deeper, and Ben sees his adam’s apple bob nervously in his throat. He rolls his eyes at the ridiculous idiot. Then, for good measure, he glares at Nathan, cursing him for his forwardness.

“Blimey, how the other half lives, eh?” exclaims Callum as he closes the door behind Nathan after a series of farewells that had taken much longer than they should, and in which Ben had played no part. “Fancy buyin’ a whole new wardrobe of clothes, just like that.” He clicks his fingers in illustration.  
“You was flirtin’ with him,” says Ben.  
Callum wheels round to fix him with a wide-eyed look. “I weren’t!”  
“You were.”  
“He mightta bin flirtin’ with me,” says Callum, coming back across the room and sitting on the couch opposite Ben’s bed. “And to be honest, I didn’t mind. It was a bit of a confidence boost, to tell ya the truth. Since I split up with my – with Chris – I ain’t had a lot of that goin’ on.”  
“I don’t care about yer personal life,” says Ben in clipped, quiet tones. “I only care that yer professional at all times. And that weren’t professional.”  
Callum’s face falls. “I was bein’ friendly, I wasn’t bein’ unprofessional.”  
“Don’t answer me back! I’ve just bought you a new suit, outta the kindness of me heart. The least you can do is show me a bit of respect. An’ you can be friendly on yer own time, not when I’m payin’ ya. Understand?”  
Callum stares at Ben defiantly, and seems to be deciding whether or not he should reply. Eventually, his eyes drop and he mutters a quiet “Yes,” into his lap.  
“Pardon?”  
“I said yes! Now can I go and find me room and unpack?”  
They stare each other out for a few seconds, a silent battle of wills taking place, until Ben nods once. As Callum leaves the room the door closes a little more loudly than is necessary.  
Ben lies back on the bed and sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He’s surrounded by idiots. His last assistant had turned out to be a traitor, and this latest one seems like he’s going to be just as difficult, only in new and inventive ways. Why is life never simple?  
He rolls over and manages to get a bit of shut-eye for a couple of hours. When he wakes, he feels sticky and grubby, so he takes a long shower, making the most of the complimentary – and very high quality – toiletries, and puts the only set of clothes he has back on, leaving off the underpants.  
There’s a strange feeling gnawing at the edges of his brain. He thinks it might be shame and it feels uncomfortable. He might have gone off on Callum a little too forcefully earlier. In his defence though, he was tired, he’d been travelling all day, and the stupid man had been way too friendly with the shop assistant. His job wasn’t to cosy up to the other hired helps; it was to make sure Ben’s every need was catered for. Nevertheless, Ben might have overdone the reprimand.  
He sighs and picks up the receiver of the phone to dial through to Callum’s room.  
Callum picks up on the third ring.  
“Watcha doin’?” asks Ben.  
“Starin’ out the window at the view,” says Callum. He sounds sulky.  
“You wanna go and find some food? On expenses.”  
There’s a pause, then, “Yeah, OK. I’ll come to yours, shall I?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Oh, and Ben?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I wondered if ya wanted to borrow some things til ya get yer new stuff. Spare kecks, or somethin’.”  
“Nah, ‘s alright, I’m goin’ commando.”  
Ben hears a very audible gulp on Callum’s end of the line, and grins to himself. “See ya in ten minutes, Callum.”  
He puts the phone down and imagines what’s going to happen when Callum arrives outside his door in a few minutes. The surreptitious looks he’ll be throwing down at Ben’s crotch, like he did when he called at his apartment to find him in just a towel. It might be easy, winding Callum up, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less enjoyable, especially now Ben knows he’s been recently dumped and is probably gagging for it. Is definitely gagging for it, given the way he was with the shop boy.  
When he arrives, Callum knocks on the door and waits outside. Ben curses to himself. He’s going to have to repeat the thing about Callum holding a spare key to let himself in. He throws open the door, ready with a sarcastic quip, to find the older man looking confused. In his hand he’s holding a balled-up piece of cloth. The look on his face pulls Ben up short.  
“What’s that ya got?” asks Ben.  
“I don’t understand,” says Callum, in a subdued tone. He holds out the cloth, and as he takes it, Ben sees that it’s actually a burgundy t-shirt.  
“Ain’t this the one you put on when I come to see you at your apartment?” asks Callum.  
“Looks similar,” says Ben. He unfolds the material and sees that it’s torn, slashed three or four times so that the arms hang limp from the seams and the front is almost cut in two.  
“Where d’ya get this?” asks Ben, frowning at Callum.  
He’s looking bemused, and a little worried. “It was hangin’ on yer door handle.”

FOUR  
Callum hands the menu off to the waiter and throws another concerned look at Ben. “You sure yer OK?”  
“Yes, Callum. I’m fine. Stop lookin’ at me like someone’s just died.”  
“Ya look a bit spooked. I still think ya shoulda called the police.”  
“And said what?” Ben takes a slug of his beer, his actions so irritable that he pours some of it down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and curses inwardly. Very suave. Callum’s sure to be impressed. Although, he’s not trying to impress Callum. Not in the slightest. “A t-shirt that looks a little bit similar to one I used to have ended up outside me hotel room. I got no idea how, and I got no idea why anyone would do it.”  
“Easy,” says Callum. “Someone’s tryin’ to spook ya, ain’t they? It weren’t just outside yer hotel room, it was on yer door handle. It’s got to have come from yer stolen suitcase. Which means, someone’s got all yer other stuff too, and they’re in yer hotel. God knows why. ”  
“Yeah, thank you Sherlock Holmes. You ain’t got no proof of any of that, and that’s the first question the police would ask, ain’t it? ‘Why’? Closely followed by ‘who’?”  
Callum takes a more measured sip of his own beer, his face creased in thought. “We could ask the hotel if there’s any CCTV in that part of the corridor. See if we can see who done it.” He points his glass at Ben. “And yer playin’ it all down, ain’t ya? That t-shirt was slashed almost in half. That’s gotta mean somethin’. There’s gotta be a message in there somewhere.”  
“Can we please talk about something else?” asks Ben, staring around the restaurant and pointedly ignoring the concerned look Callum is still throwing at him. It’s a nice place, one of Ben’s favourites when he’s in Washington. Sophisticated French cuisine and a relaxed ambience. It’s the sort of place he’d normally take a date if he was trying to impress them, and he’s no idea why he chose it tonight. He guesses it’s just because he wanted to be in familiar, reassuring surroundings after what, admittedly, was a bit of a shock earlier. Not that he’d admit that to Callum.  
Also not that he usually has what most people would call dates. No, his definition of a date is a meal with someone who’s proving particularly resistant to going to bed with him and needs a bit of softening up beforehand. In all honesty there aren’t that many of them. Most people jump at the chance. Ben’s no idiot, he knows the main attraction is his celebrity, but he likes to think once he’s got them there, he’s pretty proficient between the sheets. Nevertheless, once they’ve been in his bed, he sacks them off. No point in repeat performances, they only tend to lead into messy emotions and stuff. More trouble than they’re worth.  
The waiter approaches from behind him to ask if they’d like more drinks, and he flinches at the sound of his voice. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Callum, if the ‘told you so’ look he adopts is anything to go by.  
As the waiter wanders off, Callum opens his mouth.  
“So tell me about this ex of yours,” says Ben, grasping at anything that will get Callum to change the subject.  
Callum’s expression changes immediately. He looks a little forlorn, like the wound is still quite raw. He stares down into his pint. “Nothin’ really to say. I s’pose we just drifted apart, what with me bein’ away for work so often.” He looks up and gives Ben a brave smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I come home after a spell away, excited to see him, and found him in bed with one of our friends.”  
“Blimey,” says Ben. “Not yer friend anymore then, am I right?”  
Callum huffs a laugh that contains almost no humour and a large dose of ruefulness. “Nah, not really.”  
His voice is so quiet Ben hardly hears him over the general hubbub of chatter around them. He watches him carefully. He seems genuinely upset, in a way that Ben can’t really relate to. If someone treats you bad, you move on. Preferably after you’ve given ‘em a taste of their own medicine. Or a smack in the mouth, at the very least. No point letting ‘em get to you.”  
“Was it…recent?” he asks, trying to sound sympathetic rather than just plain nosy.  
“Yeah.” Another rueful chuckle from Callum. “Six weeks ago.” He heaves a sigh. “An’ I miss him.”  
“The friend?” asks Ben.  
“The boyfriend,” says Callum, throwing a look at Ben that implies he might be an idiot. Ben doesn’t appreciate it. He’s trying here, he really is.  
“ ‘S why I applied for this job,” Callum adds. “Thought it might take me mind off it.”  
Ben’s not sure he likes the sound of that. He wants an employee who’s totally focussed on his needs, not distracted by their insignificant personal dramas. He searches around for the sort of thing people normally say in these circumstances.  
“He’s an idiot, then, ain’t he?” he comments after a long silence. “Yer boyfriend. You’d be a catch for somebody, Callum.”  
“Yeah?”  
He’d meant it as a throwaway comment, but the smile that breaks over Callum’s face makes Ben blink, and he feels suddenly like the other man’s gaze is too piercing. Like he can see straight inside him. “Well, I mean…” he says, clearing his throat, “yer not bad lookin’. You seem quite… normal. There’d be loads of men happy to have ya. Nice eyes.” He tells himself to shut up quickly, not even knowing where that last comment came from, and tries in vain to look away from the eyes he’s just mentioned. They’ve turned an even more vivid blue now that Callum is staring right into his soul. “I just mean, some people would say ya have nice eyes. You know…”  
“Well, fancy runnin’ into you here!”  
The spell is broken and they both look up at the new arrival. He’s standing at their table with a dark-haired woman on his arm, and looking like he owns the entire restaurant. Ben’s never been so relieved to see him in his life. There’s a first time for everything.  
Jack Branning.  
Crime writer from the East End of London. Still lives in the East End of London, unlike Ben, who many might say had sold out.  
Ben pastes on a fake smile. “Evening Jack. In town for this reception thing tomorrow night an’ all, are ya?”  
“I certainly am.”  
“Ben.” The woman on Jack’s arm leans in to greet Ben with a distinct lack of warmth.  
“Whitney. Still up the duff?”  
“Of course. Thank you for the charmin’ way in which you phrase the question. People wouldn’t believe yer a writer.”  
Ben throws her a sarcastic smile. He can see Callum looking between them all, trying to work out the relationships. “This is Jack Branning,” he says. “Fellow crime writer.”  
“Ah! Now I HAVE read one of yours,” says Callum half-rising from his seat. “Ragged Edges,” great book. Had me on the edge of me seat all the way through.” He points at himself. “Callum Highway, Ben’s assistant.”  
Jack exchanges a gleeful look with Ben, as if he can’t quite believe this guy, and shakes Callum’s hand. “Nice to meet ya mate. Glad you’ve got such discerning taste.” In an aside to Ben, he adds, “Better watch out Ben, you’ll be losin’ this one an’ all if you ain’t careful. In fact, once Whit needs to take maternity leave I’ll be on the look-out for a new assistant.”  
“Seven,” says Ben.  
“Huh?” Branning’s craggy features crease into a frown.  
“Only reached number seven in the bestseller lists, didn’t it?” Ben sits back in his chair and steeples his hands on his stomach. “That woulda bin about the time my fourth was number one, wouldn’t it?”  
Jack snorts. “I’m flattered you’ve got such a detailed knowledge of me sales figures, mate.” He turns back to Callum. “Nice to meet ya Callum. If you ever get fed up of misery-guts ‘ere and want a new job, come and find me.”  
Ben watches as Callum smiles uncertainly, and then the waiter arrives with their first course and Jack and Whitney beat a retreat to their own table. Ben’s pleased to see it’s right over on the other side of the restaurant, too far away for the four of them to engage in polite chit-chat.  
“He seemed nice,” says Callum as he tucks into his dover sole.  
“Looks can be deceptive,” mutters Ben. He sees Callum glance at him with narrowed eyes, as if he’s trying to weigh him up. “What?”  
Callum shakes his head. “Nothin’.” He finishes chewing his mouthful of food. “D’ya not like people, or sommat? Are you an introvert, is that it? Cos, I could see why ya might be. They do say a lot of writers are introverts. S’pose ya have to be, to observe other people.”  
“What are ya goin’ on about?” asks Ben, shaking salt on his moules a la crème Normande. Callum watches his actions with barely concealed horror in his eyes, as if Ben’s committing the biggest crime ever known to gastronomy. So, Ben likes salt on his mussels. It is definitely not a crime.  
“You always seem to get a bit…”  
“A bit what?”  
Callum shrugs. “A bit grumpy when there’s other people around. This is the second time we’ve eaten out together and you’re always alright until someone else turns up. You was the same earlier in the hotel room.”  
“Yeah, alright,” says Ben. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis. If I want character analysis it won’t be me personal assistant I come to, alright?”  
Callum shrugs again, looking like the reprimand’s fallen on deaf ears, and Ben occupies himself with digging mussels out of their shells. Forcefully. “I got every reason to be grumpy around some people,” he adds a minute or so later.  
“Enemies, ya mean?” asks Callum, sitting forward and looking interested again.  
“No, not enemies,” says Ben, huffing out a sigh. “Not in the way you mean. No one who’d wanna nick me clothes and tear em up, at any rate.”  
“But how d’ya know? There could be any number of people who might wanna - ”  
“Callum!”  
“Sorry. I know yer spooked by it, I don’t wanna make it worse for ya. Sorry.”  
“I ain’t spooked! Just change the record, wouldya? Tell me some more about how yer boyfriend broke yer heart.”  
Ben may not be spooked, but that doesn’t stop him from allowing Callum to go into his hotel room before him when they get back, switching into bodyguard mode with an ease that Ben might find sexy. If he weren’t…you know…Callum. The hired help.

Sexy. That word seems to be swirling round in Ben’s head a lot lately, and it’s swirling like a washing machine on its spin cycle when Callum lets himself into his room the next night, all suited and booted ready for the publisher’s reception in downtown Washington. The blue suit the shop boy – Nathan – had picked out for him had been absolutely the right choice. It hugs him in all the right places, and the blue brings out the vividness of his eyes.  
“I’m gonna stick close by you tonight,” says Callum. “Just in case…ya know.” He waves his hands around. “Crazies.”  
“You sure you ain’t gonna be distracted?” asks Ben as he knots his tie and appraises Callum through the mirror. “Cos in that suit yer gonna have a LOT of admirers.”  
Callum’s entire face lights up at what Ben realises too late he will have interpreted as a compliment. “Nope. I’m only gonna have eyes for you tonight.”  
Ben swallows hard and gets a little lost in the reflection of those blue eyes. Clearing his throat, he turns to pull on his jacket. “Well ya might have to sod off if I meet anyone I wanna – you know.”  
At Callum’s blank face, he sighs. “I might wanna pull. And I ain’t gonna bring ‘em all the way back here, so if I give ya the nod, you get lost, alright?”  
“Oh! Yeah, got it. Sorry. But I will be keepin’ a close eye on ya.” Callum grins. “I’m in bodyguard mode again tonight. You uh…” He pauses, as if he’s debating whether his next comment might be a bit too forward. He goes for it anyway. “Ya look good too, in yer suit.”  
Ben ignores him.

The reception is at a venue close by Capitol Hill, and Ben sees Callum’s eyes widen as they climb the steps into a vaulted orangery, their feet sinking into the plush deep carpet as they make their way into the crowds of guests.  
“Pain in the arse, these things are,” says Ben as he swipes glasses of champagne for them both from a passing waiter. “Bein’ nice to everyone for a prolonged period of time.”  
“I can see ya might find that tricky,” says Callum, grinning at him to let him know he’s joking.  
Ben turns his back on him and glugs half his champagne in one go.  
“What’s it in aid of, anyway?” asks Callum, coming round to stand in front of him again.  
“This one’s about announcin’ a new award for crime writing, as if we ain’t got enough of ‘em already,” says Ben. “You wanna know how many Golden Daggers I’ve won?”  
Callum nods. The look on his face suggests he’s humouring Ben.  
“Four.” Ben holds up four fingers. “Four Golden Daggers. Nobody else has won that many.” He drops the fingers quickly as Jack Branning appears just behind Callum’s left shoulder.  
“Donald Trump ‘ere tellin’ ya how much better he is than everyone else?” asks the older man. “I can always tell when he’s doin’ that cos he holds four fingers up.” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Whatever could that refer to?”  
Ben throws him a sarcastic smile as Callum twists round to greet the man. He looks pleased to see him. Ben thinks he wouldn’t be quite so pleased if he knew what Jack had done. How he’d betrayed Ben.  
“Bit of a weird concept when ya think about it,” continues Jack. “An award for writing. It’s all subjective, ain’t it?”  
“Not really,” chips in Ben. “The numbers speak for ‘emselves, don’t they? Sales figures. All them people can’t be wrong, can they?”  
He sees Jack’s face light up, as if he’s just led him into a trap and slammed the trapdoor behind him. “Four words for ya, Ben. The. Da. Vinci. Code. Quantity don’t necessarily equal quality.” He taps the side of his nose and wanders off laughing to himself, leaving Ben to stare at a tall personal assistant in a blue suit who’s smiling sheepishly at him.  
“I’m hungry,” he announces, heading off in search of the buffet. Callum stays close behind him, and he gathers all his restraint not to tell him to piss off and leave him alone. He purposely cuts in between two guests who look to be a couple, so that there’s no room for Callum to edge in beside him, and then casts his eye over the array. The couple he cut in on move away, their places immediately taken by other guests, none of whom is Callum, thankfully.  
“Very pretty, this food,” says a red-haired woman in a green dress who’s had the same idea as Ben. They graze the platters of amuse-bouches side by side. “Not very filling though. I’m going to have to find something else to fill me up.” She speaks in a smooth, cultured Washington accent and fixes Ben with a look that would have lesser men coming at a hundred paces. “If you know what I mean.”  
He smiles, flattered by the attention, even if it’s not quite the right sort of attention. “Oh yeah? Need a bit more in yer gob, do ya?”  
“If you’re referring to my mouth, then yes. I do like it well-filled.”  
Ben rolls his eyes at her cheesy line, and looks around for Callum. He’s been waylaid by Whitney, and they’re deep in conversation, Whitney leaning against a pillar nearby and rubbing her stomach, even though she’s not even showing yet. She just looks a little fatter than usual. Ben curses to himself. God knows what she’ll be telling Callum.  
He extricates himself from the crowd around the buffet and takes a meandering path across to stand, unnoticed, on the other side of the pillar, straining his ears to hear what they’re saying.  
“Yeah,” Whitney is saying. “I used to be you! I was his personal assistant until I ‘ad an affair with Jack and he left his wife for me.”  
“Oh! I never realised,” Ben hears Callum say, sounding a little shocked. “So, what tips can ya give me?”  
“There’s only one tip ya need if yer workin’ with Ben Mitchell,” says Whitney. “Get out, soon as ya can. He’s a miserable git. He took it real personal when I told him I was with Jack, you’d think I’d bin having an affair.” She giggles, in that simpering way that used to annoy the hell out of Ben. “Well…I suppose I had, but not behind Ben’s back cos I weren’t cheatin’ on him. You’d think I had though, the way he took it. Proper nasty and spiteful, he was. Ain’t ya found that about him yet?”  
“He’s…” Ben listens hard for Callum’s next words. So what impression has the saintly Callum Highway made of him? Callum Highway, who it seems can charm anyone he comes into contact with and manages to look perfect in a blue suit he’d never even tried on before donning it for tonight’s event.  
“I sort of feel like he’s lonely,” says Callum. “He don’t seem like he’s got many friends.”  
Ben hears Whitney snort in a most unbecoming way. “Not surprising.”  
“I just get the impression he don’t…” Callum sounds reluctant to be giving his view. At least there is that in his favour. “He don’t seem like he really gets how human relationships work.”  
“Don’t feel sorry for him!” Ben hears Whitney say before he strides away from them and out of earshot. So fuck Callum Highway! How dare he judge Ben, looking down on him like he’s some sort of –!  
“Going somewhere in a hurry?” asks a voice in his ear. He keeps walking as he sees a flash of green dress in his peripheral vision. The woman keeps pace with him even as he tries to shake her off. “You look like a man on a mission.”  
He opens his mouth to tell her to get away from him, but then stops abruptly, looking her up and down. “You still lookin’ for somethin’ to put in yer mouth?”  
She smiles. “Why? You got something in mind?”  
“Might have,” he answers. Objectively, she is pretty stunning. She’s not doing it for him, but if you close your eyes one mouth is very much like another, isn’t it? “Where can we go?”  
She takes him by the hand. “Follow me.”  
They wind their way through the guests until they reach the edge of the room and enter an alcove in which a PA system has been set up, ready for the announcements later.  
The woman turns to him, her scarlet lips slashing her face in a wide smile. She has perfect white teeth, and stunning green eyes. “You like the thrill of discovery?” she asks.  
Ben shrugs. He just wants to get off, and if this is the opportunity the universe has seen fit to present him with, he’ll take it.  
She pushes him up against the wall behind the bank of speakers and immediately drops to her knees. As she slides down his zip and frees him from his trousers, he throws his head back and closes his eyes.  
Blue eyes.  
Blue eyes are all he can see in his mind’s eye. He’s hard immediately.  
It’s exhilarating, doing this when not ten feet away, people are chatting and laughing, oblivious. The woman is skilled, she knows exactly what she’s doing. He threads his fingers into her hair and guides her a little, getting her to provide exactly what he wants, and feels her moan around him. He’s not going to last long. Turns out the thrill of discovery does get him off. He stifles a moan as he comes, and the woman slaps his hand away from her hair. “You coulda warned me,” she exclaims, wiping the corner of her mouth. Her voice is hard now where before it was sultry.  
Ben opens his eyes as he tucks himself back in and suddenly realises the two of them are no longer alone. His eyes meet those of Callum. He’s looking disappointed, almost distraught, but there’s something else too. An edge of embarrassment.  
“This is where ya got to!” he says.  
The woman looks between them, and something seems to click for her. “Ah, OK. No point asking if you want your turn then honey?”  
The look Callum gives her is withering. “I’m gay, love.”  
She raises her hands in surrender and inches her way out between them. “Nice to meet you Mr Mitchell.”  
“Yeah, thanks for the…uh… thanks,” says Ben, his legs still a little wobbly. He pushes himself up against the wall to anchor himself and glares at Callum. “What?”  
“Are you an idiot?” hisses Callum.  
Ben’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be speaking to him like that, but he’s so taken aback at Callum’s tone he can’t think of the words to reprimand him.  
Callum rolls his eyes, still looking angry. “We think ya’ve probably got a stalker, so what did I tell ya?”  
When Ben doesn’t answer, he answers for him. “I told ya I wasn’t gonna let you outta my sight tonight. And what d’ya do the first chance ya get? Disappear where no one can see ya with some random woman.” Callum throws out an arm, pointing in the direction the woman had taken. “She coulda bin the stalker, for all you knew! Seriously, Ben, are ya lookin’ to get yerself killed?”  
Ben pushes himself off the wall and finds his voice. “Well p’raps if you hadn’t bin gossipin’ about me with that slapper who used to work for me, you’da seen where I went to, wouldn’t ya? If she had killed me, you’d’ve had that on yer conscience, wouldn’t ya?”  
Callum shakes his head. “Un-believable. Truly, you are unbelieveable.”  
“I’m goin’ back to the hotel,” says Ben, suddenly sick of the whole evening. “Get me a cab.”  
Callum stares hard at him, before turning on his heel and striding off. Ben follows half a minute later, wending his way through groups of people who are smiling and laughing, chatting easily amongst themselves. A few of them wave a greeting at him as he passes, but none of them ask him to join them. He hasn’t got the right accent for them; doesn’t come from the right part of the world. Well, fuck ‘em all. He showed them. How many of them have had number one best-selling books? How many of them have won four Golden Daggers?

The cab ride back to the hotel is silent. Callum’s disapproval hangs in the air between them. Well fuck him too. Ben is defiant, unrepentant. But by the time they’re travelling up in the lift to their rooms, he’s spoiling for a fight, too. Callum’s silence is unnerving, and Ben’s starting to fill in the gaps, imaging what the other man really thinks about him, assisted of course by what he’s already heard from the bloke’s own lips.  
“I dunno who ya think you are,” he says as they exit the lift. “Yer nobody, and yer judgin’ me. You can’t even hold onto a boyfriend - ”  
“Please let’s not do this,” says Callum tiredly, letting them into Ben’s room with his key card. “You’ve had too much champagne and yer gonna say things you’ll regret. Just go to bed Ben.” He patrols the room, checking the windows are secure and looking into wardrobes.  
“Yer boyfriend preferred yer mate over you and you think I’m the one has problems with relationships!”  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’ta said that,” says Callum, looking shamefaced at the realisation that his words had been overheard. “She put me on the spot.”  
“I don’t have problems with relationships,” says Ben, “cos I know exactly what I want outta life. I don’t wanna be tied down with messy entanglements. Why d’ya think yer hurtin’ about yer boyfriend, Callum?”  
Callum shakes his head, as if he doesn’t want to hear what Ben’s about to impart. Ben’s wisdom. He’s got this all sorted out, he’s going to share it with Callum so he doesn’t make the same mistakes. “Yer hurtin’ cos ya let him get too close. Yer weak.” Ben points a finger in Callum’s face. “Gettin’ too close to people, that’s a weakness. Ya hear me?”  
“Yeah, I hear ya,” says Callum, pushing him to one side and heading to check the bathroom. “Yer wrong though. Ya - Oh fucking hell!” He stops talking abruptly, and closes the bathroom door quickly behind himself, leaning up against it and throwing a worried glance at Ben.  
“What?” asks Ben, Callum’s demeanour cutting through his self-righteous anger. He glances over Callum’s shoulder. “What is it?”  
Slowly, Callum opens the door again. There on the mirror, in scarlet lipstick, are two scrawled words.  
‘Writer’- die.

FIVE  
“That’s it, we’re callin’ the cops,” says Callum.  
Ben sinks down onto the end of his bed, trying to ignore the trembling of his legs. “And tellin’ ‘em what, exactly? How’re they gonna work out who did it?”  
“I said it before!” exclaims Callum. “They can look at the CCTV, see who it was let ‘emselves in yer room.”  
“We’re movin’ on tomorrow,” says Ben, rubbing his eyes gently with the heels of his hands. He’s tired and his head’s a mess. He just wants to take his contacts out and go to bed. “It’s probably just a local crazy who took their opportunity while I was in town. Everythin’ll go back to normal once we get to New York.”  
“I don’t understand why you don’t wanna tell the police,” says Callum. He’s hovering uncertainly between Ben and the bathroom door, as if he thinks the stalker might suddenly appear from the woodwork and dive upon him.  
“Because,” says Ben, as if he’s talking to a stupid person, which he very well might be, “it’ll get out. The papers’ll jump on this, and then it’ll be open season for every crazy who wants to make a name for themselves. It’ll make me look weak, Callum. And besides…”  
“ ‘Besides’ what?”  
“Well…” a tiny, rusty, seldom-used part of Ben’s conscience suggests he might not want to utter the next words that are forming in his head. He ploughs on regardless. “Well, who discovered the t-shirt outside me door? Who used me bathroom just before we left for tonight, Callum?”  
He watches the cogs whir in Callum’s head before an incredulous look spreads across his face. “You think I did it? Seriously?” He points at himself. “You think I’m the stalker?”  
“Well, ya could be.” Ben taps his temple with a finger. “I got a crime writer’s brain, mate. Don’t think I ain’t been workin’ out all the possibilities.”  
“Well maybe ya need to take up another form of writin’ then, Ben, cos bein’ a crime writer is seriously warping yer mind. Yer suspicious of everyone, even the people who are tryin’ to keep ya safe.” Callum paces in front of him, clearly angry. “I can’t believe you’d even consider it might be me!”  
Ben watches him, and wonders if he’s protesting too much. He’s a pretty good actor, if that’s the case. He seems genuinely hurt that Ben would suspect him. “OK,” he says, trying to appease the other man. “Maybe you ain’t doin’ it to scare me. Maybe ya just wanted a longer contract, and ya thought if ya made yerself indispensable to me, I’d extend it.”  
He sees Callum go so red in the face he fears he’s going to explode, and then Callum flings out an arm and points at the door. “Right, that’s it! I’ve had enough of you tonight! Get out!”  
Ben scoffs in surprise. “This is my room, Callum.”  
“Yeah, but tonight yer gonna sleep in mine. If the stalker tries to get back in here I’ll be ready for ‘im.”  
Ben shrugs. “’S more likely to be a woman, actually. Ripped up clothes, lipstick messages on mirrors, all the hallmarks of a deranged female, ain’t they?”  
“So why - ?” Callum cuts off his question and shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t wanna know what’s goin’ on in that head of yours. Just get yer things and go and sleep in my room. I’ll let ya in with me card, and then I’ll let meself in first thing to check yer OK.” He heads to the door and waits while Ben gathers up his toothbrush, toothpaste and contact lens container from the bathroom, keeping the door open with his foot just in case there’s anyone loitering behind the shower curtain. He doesn’t mind admitting, he’s spooked good and proper now. Not that he’ll let Callum know that.  
Once he’s ready, Callum leads the way next door and lets him into his own room, waiting while he turns on lights and goes into the bathroom to get ready for bed.  
“The way I feel at the moment, I’d rather ya cut me contract short than extended it,” says Callum when Ben reappears and heads for the bed. “You are seriously tryin’ me patience.”  
“I don’t think yer supposed to speak to me like that,” points out Ben. “I’m still yer employer.”  
“OK, well do yer worst,” says Callum in a weary voice. “Goodnight Ben.”  
“Night.”  
Once the door closes behind him, Ben strips quickly and slides under the covers. He buries his face in both pillows to see if he can pick up a hint of Callum’s scent, but all he smells is a faint trace of the man’s cheap aftershave. It settles him, though. Somehow, he feels comforted.  
The longer he lies there though, keeping a small nightlight on so he doesn’t get spooked at every little noise – a door closing further down the corridor, water gurgling in the pipes in the bathroom, the ceiling creaking as someone walks across the floor above – the more his brain goes into overload. Callum’s just said exactly the things Ben would have expected him to say if he was the stalker and he was trying to throw the scent off himself. He’s given Ben no indication that he might be unhinged though. In fact, he’s been the very picture of a down-to-earth, decent, caring bloke. The sort of bloke Ben might want as a boyfriend, if he… If he did boyfriends. If he let anyone get close to him. How much more perfect a cover could someone have, though? Someone like Callum, they’d definitely be the killer in one of Ben’s books.  
Ben wonders exactly why Callum broke up with his last boyfriend. He’s only had Callum’s version of events. Maybe if he asked the boyfriend, he’d get a tangled story of obsessive behaviour and increasingly bizarre actions until he was forced to change the locks. How well can we really know anyone? It’s why Ben’s always on his guard. There are a lot of people out there who’d do you harm as soon as look at you. Getting close to people – it just opens you up to hurt, makes you weak, at the mercy of others.  
He lies awake until early into the morning, and when he does finally fall asleep, it’s fitful. He tosses and turns, tangling in the sheets until he throws them off completely.  
He’s so exhausted he stirs only barely at the sound of the door opening the next morning. He gradually drifts into consciousness, only to jerk awake and let out a startled yell at the sight of someone standing at the end of the bed, staring down at him.  
He squints, and makes out that it’s Callum. He’s staring down at Ben with a blush on his face and his mouth hanging slightly open. He’s not staring at his face. He starts when he sees that Ben’s awake, and busies himself with crossing the room to open the curtains, and Ben realises suddenly that he’s naked, and the sheets are in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the bed. His dick is welcoming the dawn in the way it usually does, unabashed and enthusiastic. He scrabbles for the covers and waits for it to soften. By the time he’s realised that he’s awake and there’s another day of drudgery and disappointment awaiting him, his dick’s usually lost interest, and today is no exception.  
“Mornin’” he grunts in a scratchy voice when he’s feeling less…tumescent.  
“Callum grunts in reply from where he’s staring out of the window. “You decent yet?”  
“Yep.”  
Callum turns around and comes to sit on the end of the bed, and Ben’s dick stirs again, taking a tentative interest. “Yer still alive then?” says Callum. “No one killed ya in the night?”  
Ben gives him a hard stare. “Are you jokin’ about this? It ain’t a joke, Callum.”  
Callum smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, yer right, It ain’t a joke.” He points a finger at Ben. “And I’m glad to hear yer takin’ it more serious.” He drops his hand and picks at the covers, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Could ya…d’ya think you could wear a few more clothes if I’m gonna be around? I mean, I don’t wanna be seein’ yer…” he tips his chin in the direction of Ben’s groin. “I’ve seen it twice in the last two days, and I weren’t prepared for it neither time.” His voice gets quieter and his face pinker. “Some people might say it was sexual harassment in the workplace.”  
“Sexual -? ” Ben scoffs, astounded. “I weren’t pointin’ it at ya, was I? It ain’t my fault ya keep turnin’ up unannounced when it’s out!” His dick lowers its head in shame; it’s given up for the day.  
“Yeah, well, I’ve said me piece,” says Callum, as if he wants to shut this conversation down as quickly as humanly possible. “Please just keep it under closer control.”  
“Oh my god! It ain’t a dog chasin’ sheep!” Ben throws himself out of bed and grabs his boxers, before heading, still naked, for the bathroom. He notices Callum is making a point of staring towards the window again, and scoffs as he closes the door behind himself.  
As he’s in the shower a couple of minutes later though, making liberal use of Callum’s bodywash, he wonders why Callum would turn down the chance to see his dick. What’s wrong with it? What’s wrong with Ben, that Callum isn’t interested? There’s a lot of people in this world would jump at the chance to experience what Callum did this morning. Just one more piece of evidence that the guy’s a weirdo. Ben’s keeping a tally of all of them.

Their flight to New York is delayed by two hours.  
“For god’s sake!” complains Ben. “This day’s goin’ from bad to worse. Why do I get all the bad luck?”  
Callum regards him with faint distaste. “I’d say it was all relative.” He stands up and brushes his clothes down even though they’re spotless. Definitely psychopathic behaviour, Ben tells himself. Obsessive-compulsive, at any rate.  
“I’m goin’ to get a book for the flight,” says Callum. “Ya want anythin’?”  
“Valium,” says Ben.  
Callum rolls his eyes and turns away. As Ben watches him make his way to the bookstore on the other side of the concourse, he calculates how many more days there are left to Callum’s contract. Too many, is the answer he comes up with. He sighs, and rummages in his rucksack for his laptop. Might as well try and get some work done while he’s here, if only that child two rows away would stop wailing and give him a bit of peace. There’s a reason Ben usually uses the VIP lounge. Children are not old enough to be considered VIPs, whatever their doting parents might think. The publishing company had mixed up the tickets, though, so today they’re travelling business-class. No VIP lounge for Ben today. It’s just another sign of the universe conspiring against him. He sighs tiredly and takes his contacts out before putting on his glasses, his eyes itchy and red from lack of sleep.

Noisy children notwithstanding, he makes good inroads on the start of chapter three of his latest before Callum flops down beside him and pulls him back out of the world he’s created, where Foxton Thwaite, his flawed and complex detective, is showing a rookie cop around a murder scene.  
“Huh,” says Callum, looking at Ben. “I never knew you wore glasses.”  
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me Callum,” murmurs Ben, trying to keep his brain engaged with the horrified prurience of the tall, dark and handsome rookie cop.  
“I know,” says Callum, waving a bookstore bag in Ben’s face. “That’s why I bought another one of yer books for the flight. Gonna see if I can work out what makes ya tick.”  
Ben turns to look at him. “No, that ain’t stalker behaviour at all, is it Callum?”  
Callum huffs a deep sigh. “I ain’t a stalker!”  
“OK,” says Ben, in a disbelieving voice. Callum takes his purchase out of the bag and begins flicking his way through the pages. Ben sees that he’s bought a copy of “Perfect End”, his third novel in the Foxton Thwaite series. He was just beginning to get into his stride with that one, working out a consistent voice for Thwaite, and it’s the first that really brought him worldwide attention. It’s a good choice. He turns to tell Callum so, and then gasps in horror. “WHAT are ya doin’?”  
Callum raises his eyes slowly from the page he’s reading. The page very close to the end of the book. “Readin’ the endin’,” he says.  
“Why? Why would ya do that?”  
“So there ain’t no surprises,” says Callum. “Also, so I can see how ya put it all together.”  
“Oh my god!” exclaims Ben. One more mark against his ‘is Callum a psycho-stalker?’ checklist.  
Callum nudges him with his elbow. “Sexy, by the way.”  
“What?”  
“Yer glasses. Sexy. Make ya look very studious.”  
Ben sighs away the sudden butterflies in his stomach. “Now who’s sexually harassing? Don’t forget I’m yer boss.”  
Callum grins. “Yes boss.”

SIX  
By the time they’re touching down in New York, three hours late, Ben’s got the opening series of scenes to chapter three pretty much spot on, and he’s feeling much more like everything’s right with the world. Well, maybe not right – it’ll never be that - much more like he can cope with whatever the world throws at him. Writing has always been his comfort blanket. He can lose himself in crafting a scene, creating dialogue, moving his characters from point to point, so that the real world disappears for a few hours, and when he returns to it he feels just a little bit stronger to deal with it, just a little bit more in control.  
The feeling doesn’t last for long, however. Beside him, Callum is engrossed in his – Ben’s – book, holding it open just a chapter or so from the end.  
“You reading that from back to front?” asks Ben. It’s the first words he’s spoken in nearly two and a half hours.  
“Nah,” says Callum, not raising his eyes from the page. “Started at the beginning. Once I knew whodunnit.”  
Ben shakes his head in despair. That book is two hundred and forty-three pages long. Glancing over he sees that Callum’s on page two hundred and seven. Obviously not reading it with the care and attention it should be accorded. Ben sweated blood over that book, the least his readers could do is linger over it, appreciate the finely-wrought sentence structures, marvel at the sleights of hand in the plot. Not just gobble it up like so much junk food, casting it aside as soon as they’ve finished it in favour of the next one on the best-seller list (although, let’s face it, the next one would probably be one of his, too.)  
“’S good,” murmurs Callum. He turns over the corner of the page he’s reading to keep his place and Ben shudders at the sight. “Yeah, I like it. I like all the really subtle touches ya put in there, like that woman when Foxton Thwaite calls to check she’s OK. The way she says somethin’ that she wouldn’t normally say in a million years to alert him that the killer’s in there with her. ‘I’m perfectly alright’ -clever.” He nudges Ben with his elbow. “I’m beginnin’ to see yer not half as hard-hearted as ya like to make out, neither. All the way through this, there’s a sense that people are basically good – even Thwaite, when he’s bein’ ‘orrible to his son. He’s doin’ it cos he can’t cope. He’s a good man traumatised by what he’s seen, what he’s done. He always regrets it when he hits him or belittles him.”  
“It’s fiction, Callum,” says Ben, feeling exposed and uncomfortable. “It ain’t real. In real life, people are bastards for no reason.”  
Callum turns in his seat and fixes Ben with an appraising eye. “I don’t think ya really believe that.”  
Ben ignores him and sets about powering down his laptop in readiness for landing. Callum’s being complimentary about his book; he told him he looked sexy back at the airport. He knows Ben’s on to him. Why else would he be bending over backwards to flatter him? “Yer soft,” he tells Callum. “If ya believe everyone’s basically good, ya get trampled all over. Look at you – look at what yer boyfriend did to ya. You tellin’ me he ain’t a bastard?”  
Callum’s face falls, and a wistful look comes into his eyes. “Nah, he ain’t a bastard. Just misguided, maybe lonely, that’s all. I’d never say he was a bastard.”  
“And that’s why people will always take advantage of ya, Callum.”  
“Nah, you don’t get it, Ben. Yeah, people let ya down sometimes, but that don’t mean ya shouldn’t expect the best of ‘em.” Callum wriggles in his seat, warming to his theme. “So yer gonna get let down occasionally - hurt even – but most times, they’ll live up to yer expectations and you’ll experience things ya never thought ya could. Good things!”  
“The eternal optimist,” mutters Ben. “People like you should come with a health warnin’ for the rest of us.” He points a finger at Callum. “And don’t think I ain’t noticed what yer doin’. Complimenting me glasses, complimenting me book. I’m on to you.”  
Callum stares at him with wide eyes, and then huffs a despairing laugh. “I won’t tell ya what I think you should come with.”  
Was that a threat? That sounded like a threat. Well, at least he knows Ben’s on to him. He’s going to have to watch his step from now on.

The Tribeca Book Festival is one of Ben’s favourites, not least because it’s got a bit of a hippy vibe going on, which means lots of drugs and lots of sex, if you know where to find them. He’s booked for a reading followed by questions and answers and a signing session on the second day, and then he’s appearing again on a panel session entitled ‘Masculinity and Martyrdom in Crime Fiction’ two days later. The only downside to this is that Jack Branning is one of the other panel members, alongside an up and coming feminist author from Washington. Ben is not expecting it to be an easy ride. He’s also promised a minor author from his US publisher that he’ll make an appearance at her workshop, ‘Crime Writing – Plotting a Thriller.’ All in all, a busy few days, although he doesn’t mind the surprise appearance at the workshop. He can already imagine the gasps of delight as he pops his head round the door to see a roomful of adoring wannabe writers.  
Callum is in full bodyguard mode as they follow the festival volunteer along the corridor of the venue to the auditorium in which Ben will be appearing in his first event, ‘An Evening with Ben Mitchell’. What makes these festivals so appealing to the book-reading masses is also what makes them so challenging to someone like Ben – the close proximity to his audience. It’s the perfect place for a crazy to make good on any threats they harbour towards their favourite author.  
However. the only person who’s in close proximity to Ben at the moment is Callum. He’s walking so close behind him that when they have to slow down abruptly to navigate a crowd of people spilling out from one of the other events that’s just finished, he steps onto the back of Ben’s shoe, causing it to come half-off. Ben turns round and glares at him as he tugs the shoe back on, hopping on one foot as people swarm around them. They set off again, and Callum rests his hands on Ben’s shoulders as they walk. Ben shrugs them off roughly, and slows so that he’s walking alongside Callum. “Would ya stop?” he hisses from the side of his mouth.  
Callum doesn’t waver from glancing around them, watching out for anyone suddenly lunging towards Ben. “I’m doin’ me job,” he hisses back. “D’ya wanna die?”  
“Might be a happy release, if it meant ya’d leave me alone,” mutters Ben.  
Callum throws him a shocked look but is prevented from replying by the volunteer turning and indicating that they’ve reached their green room.  
“Okay guys, if you could just wait in here, the presenter for your event will be along shortly to introduce himself. Please help yourselves to refreshments.”  
Ben crosses to the trestle table in the corner where an array of snacks and fruit have been laid out, along with a few bottles of beer.  
“Want one?” he asks Callum as he cracks open a beer.  
“Nah, I’ve gotta keep on top of me game,” says Callum.  
Ben shrugs, and sips from his beer as he starts flicking through the book he’s brought with him, his latest, ‘Death in Mind’. He always reads the same extract at these events, to the extent that he can almost recite it these days without even looking at the pages, but he’s not about to change the excerpt. If people want to read more they can bloody well buy the thing.  
“D’ya think someone would try and get to ya while yer on stage?” asks Callum.  
“They’d be a bit daft if they did,” says Ben. “There’s gonna be six hundred people in that auditorium. Six hundred witnesses.”  
“Yeah, but some people wouldn’t be bothered by that, would they?” insists Callum. “They might get off on the notoriety.”  
Ben stares at him in disbelief. “Are ya tryin’ to give me stage fright?”  
“Nah, sorry. But I will stand right in the wings, just in case I need to run on quick, alright?”  
“OK,” says Ben, sighing heavily. “If it makes ya feel better. We’ve been here two days though, and there ain’t been anythin’ happen, has there? I told ya Callum, it was a local thing. Whoever it was is probably safely back in Washington plotting who to freak out next.” Ben waves his beer bottle at Callum, sure of his conviction. “It was probably one of the chambermaids. They probably do it to any celebs who stay there.”  
Callum looks unconvinced, but any reply he was about to make is rendered unimportant by the Greek god who strolls through the door at that precise second. Tall, blond. Stacked. Ben’s eyes widen and an instant smile plays around his lips.  
“Helloo!”  
“Ah, hi guys,” says the newcomer. He crosses to shake Ben’s hand. “I’m Gus Oliphant and I’ll be your interviewer today.” He grins widely, and Ben reciprocates. “I’m fiction editor for the New Yorker, and of course I know who you are. Big fan, biiiiig fan. I’m feeling so blessed to have been allocated this event. Looking forward to it.”  
He finally lets go of Ben’s hand and peers round at Callum “And who do we have here?”  
“No one, just me personal assistant,” supplies Ben. He ignores the way Callum’s eyes narrow at him and then flicker across to do the same to Gus.  
“Ah, OK,” Gus waves a hand at Callum and then turns back to Ben. “So, Mr Mitchell, Ben. Can I call you Ben?”  
“Course, you can call me anything ya want if you look at me like that.”  
They share a chuckle and Gus thrusts his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “Plan for the evening: nothing you won’t be expecting. I’ll go out first, build you up, bring you on. We’ll have a very brief chat to warm things up, then you do the reading. Sit back down and I’ll ask you a couple of questions to get you warmed up a little more, then we throw it open to the floor, OK?”  
“And what if I need a bit more warmin’ up, later?” asks Ben in a husky voice.  
Gus pauses before a wide smile creases his face again. He matches Ben’s tone. “Well, I’m sure I could hang around, check your temperature after your ordeal.”  
“Oh yeah? Got a special thermometer for that, have ya?”  
“I’ve got quite a big one as it goes.”  
They’re disturbed by Callum clearing his throat loudly. “Still ‘ere, by the way.” He levels a stare at Ben. “And I for one do not wanna see your ‘thermometer’ again, alright? Just so we’re clear.”  
Gus snorts softly, and Ben fixes Callum with a warning look. “I don’t think you was invited, Callum. Now why don’t ya go and case the auditorium while Gus ‘n’ me go through some last minute arrangements?”  
“Arrangements?” Callum scoffs. “Yeah, right.” Nevertheless, he does as he’s told.  
“Trouble with the staff?” asks Gus as the door closes behind him.  
“Nah, nothin’ I can’t handle,” says Ben. He leans in to Gus. “He’s on a short contract, so I won’t have to put up with it for much longer.”  
“A wise precaution, perhaps.” Gus crowds Ben against the snack table and runs a proprietorial hand down his arm. “So, I know a very intimate little restaurant down on 43rd. I could put in a call, reserve a table in the back, and then my apartment’s only a stone’s throw from there, if you wanted to come back for that temperature check.”  
“Sounds perfect. Just what the doctor ordered.”  
“Excellent. I’d better go and get mic’d up, ready for the show. Take your time, join me when you’re ready.”  
Ben shudders as he watches him leave. He’s got a thing for men who take charge. This evening’s going to be good, he can tell. Even Callum’s mood isn’t going to put a damper on it, although the idiot seems to be having a full-on temper tantrum when Ben joins him in the wings, if the evil look he throws him is anything to go by. The auditorium has filled up nicely, and Ben starts to get the buzz of anticipation he always gets at these events. Gus is already out on the stage, checking the water jug and positioning the chairs just so, and together they watch him silently for a few seconds.  
“He’s a flash Harry, ain’t he?” mutters Callum.  
“He’s a very nice man, actually,” corrects Ben. “A nice man who’s takin’ me out to dinner after this. And then on to who-knows-what back at his flat.”  
Callum turns to stare at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”  
“Yep, seriously.” Ben grins at him obnoxiously. “I have pulled, Callum. And not for the first time on this trip.”  
“Convincing a random woman to suck yer dick doesn’t count as pullin’,” says Callum, folding his arms tight around himself. “There’s gotta be a degree of effort involved for it to count as pullin’.” He peers round the curtain at the audience, and then turns back to Ben. “And how did that even happen, anyway? What are ya? Gay? Straight? Half n half?”  
“I’m the full homosexual,” says Ben, tilting his head to get a better view of Gus’s arse as he bends to adjust the coffee table that sits between the two chairs out on the stage. “I just wanted to get off that night, and if you close yer eyes, one hole’s pretty much like the next, ain’t it?”  
Callum makes a noise of disgust as on-stage, Gus gives Ben the thumbs up and then begins his opening remarks to the audience.  
“And I am certainly goin’ to be gettin’ off tonight,” adds Ben with a grin.  
Callum buries his head in his hands. “An’ how am I gonna make sure ya stay safe if yer swannin’ off with any Tom, Dick or Harry?”  
“Or Gus,” supplies Ben. “I hope that weren’t a veiled request to come and watch, cos that’s not really me thing, mate.”  
“For god’s sake, Ben!” hisses Callum. “Am I the only one takin’ this threat seriously?”  
“Looks like it,” says Ben.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you best-selling crime author, in a league of his own, Ben Mitchell!”  
The applause is deafening as Ben steps towards the stage. He turns back to Callum just before he steps into the light. “Have a night off, Callum. Go and get laid.” Then he crosses to sit in the chair on the far side of the stage, waving once or twice to the audience who are still clapping and cheering loudly.  
He’s always good at these events, definitely value for money, but tonight he’s on fire, encouraged by the sultry looks Gus is throwing him. He reads flawlessly from his novel, imbuing the text with just the right amount of menace and giving each character a different voice. He answers questions from the floor with grace and a good deal of humour, causing much hilarity, and he also manages to ignore for the most part the rolled eyes and disdainful looks that Callum is directing at him from behind Gus’s head in the wings. He counts the entire evening as a win.  
Two hours later he’s ready to claim his prize, and from what he’d seen as they were sitting on-stage, Gus hadn’t been lying when he said it would be a big one.  
“Last chance,” whispers Callum in his ear as he’s signing a book for the last person in the queue afterwards. “You don’t have to go home with him.”  
“Oh but I do, Callum,” says Ben, handing the signed novel off to middle-aged Rita, who’d asked if he would dedicate it to her husband, Walt. “It’d be rude not to.”  
Callum lays a hand on his arm. “Please be careful. You’ve got me number in yer phone, ain’t ya? Call me, if anythin’ seems a bit off, just call me, yeah?”  
Ben rolls his eyes. “Yes mum. What’re you gonna do?”  
“Go back to the hotel,” says Callum with a shrug. “Watch some American telly, order in room service.”  
Ben stands up and puts the cap on the pen he’d been using. He sees Rita eyeing it hungrily and tosses it across to her. “Why dontcha live a little, Callum? Go out, hit a bar or two. See a bit of New York?”  
“I’m tired,” says Callum. “I’m goin’ back to me room.”  
“OK,” says Ben with a sigh. “Well don’t wait up. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”  
He heads back to the green room where he knows Gus will be waiting for him, and tries to shrug off the sudden torpor that’s descended on him. Maybe it would be quite nice to be snuggling down with some rubbish telly and a plate of food that you could eat in your pyjamas. Would it?  
No.  
Possibly followed by slow, languid love-making.  
Would that be nice? Or would it feel like settling, becoming trapped?  
Yeah, definitely that.

SEVEN  
Ben flinches as a pair of hands land hard on his shoulders.  
“I don’t think I said you could go anywhere, did I?” comes a deep voice from just behind his left ear. An arm slides around his waist and holds him tightly in place. Another takes firm hold of him around his shoulders and chest.  
“Gotta go,” says Ben, checking he’s got his wallet and phone. “Gotta see what that grumpy assistant of mine’s up to.”  
“Yeah, about him,” says Gus Oliphant, planting a butterfly kiss below Ben’s ear. “What’s the deal there? Are you and him..?”  
Ben turns to face him. “Are we what?” He sees the answer in Gus’s eyes and laughs out loud. “Nah! Course not. Me n him? Christ no!”  
Gus steps back, shrugging his shoulders. “I just thought I got a vibe.”  
“From him, maybe,” says Ben. “I mean, I am irresistible, everyone wants me - ”  
“You are, they do.”  
“But nah, I ain’t interested.”  
“Pity, you could do worse. I’d have tapped it, if you hadn’t been blinding me with your awesomeness.”  
Ben grins. “I’ll tell him, he’ll be flattered.” Or maybe not, given what Callum was saying about Gus last night. “Right, gotta make a move. Thanks for last night, it was…energetic. I’m worn out.”  
“Excellent, that’s how I like to leave my conquests.”  
“Oh yeah? You sure you weren’t my conquest?”  
Gus tips his head on one side, pretending to consider, then grins. “Listen, if you ever want a repeat performance, hit me up, OK? You have my number.”  
“I do.” Ben reaches down and gives Gus’s dick a friendly shake through his boxers. “I shan’t forget that in a hurry. Bye Gus.”  
“Bye Ben, take care.”  
The bloke looks a little wistful as Ben turns to leave. He’s getting out just in time if that’s the case. When people get clingy, it gets awkward.  
Outside Gus’s apartment block, New York is swinging into life. It‘s a beautiful spring morning and the sun throws soft shadows on the sidewalks. Ben wanders slowly back through blocks of light and shade in the direction of his hotel on 19th. What a day to be alive!  
He checks his phone and sees that he’s had four texts from Callum and a missed call. For god’s sake! His mood drops immediately. It’s like going on tour with his mother – although she would probably care less about his whereabouts. His finger hovers over the reply button to the fourth text, but he changes his mind and shoves the phone back into his pocket. He’s hungry. All his exertion last night certainly built up his appetite. He’s going to find a diner and get breakfast, some of those fluffy New York pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Then he might make his way – slowly – back to the hotel. It’s a pity he doesn’t have his laptop with him, he could make a morning of it, settle himself in at some downtown diner and make more inroads into chapter three.  
By the time he leaves his chosen diner, feeling way too full of pancakes and coffee, he’s received another two texts from Callum. Does the bloke not have a life of his own?  
He meanders slowly back to the hotel, pondering Gus’s words. Is Callum in love with him? It might explain why he’s so anxious not to let him out of his sight. Ben had thought perhaps Callum was messing around with this stalker stuff because he wanted his contract extended. Maybe he’s looking to be indispensable to Ben in other ways, too. Perhaps Ben’s going to have to sit him down and have a chat, explain that he’s flattered but he’s not interested. That it’s not Callum (although it is, a bit), it’s Ben.  
Wonderful. Not a conversation to look forward to.  
The corridor of the hotel is bustling with chambermaids when he gets back, all pushing carts full of clean sheets and cleaning products. Some of the room doors are propped open as they perform the changeovers between guests, but next door to Ben’s, Callum’s is resolutely closed. Ben inserts his key card into his own door and immediately hears movement in Callum’s room. Jesus! Has the bloke been sitting in there in silence, listening out for the very first indication that Ben’s back?  
He enters his room as he hears Callum’s door open, and then the older man is pushing his way in behind Ben. “Where the hell have ya been, Ben?”  
Ben turns to face him. He’s looking angry, and a little bit scared. He does look kind of… beautiful with his eyes flashing like that. No, not beautiful. Stupid word. Arresting. Pfft. Whatever…  
“You know where I’ve bin, Callum,” says Ben in a level voice. He refuses to get caught up in Callum’s histrionics.  
“And ya didn’t think to call? I sent messages.”  
“I know ya did. Lots of messages. Sooo many messages. D’ya not think that many was a bit over the top?”  
Callum leans heavily on a hip and folds his arms tight. “You’ve had death threats, Ben. How was I to know ya wasn’t lyin’ dead in a gutter somewhere? You coulda just sent me a message to say you was alive!”  
“I’m not entirely sure I didn’t die and go to heaven last night,” Ben says dreamily. “Gus Oliphant. Gus Elephant more like, whew!”  
He drops his belongings on the bed and turns back to Callum. The older man is looking like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again, throwing his arms up in the air and turning to leave the room. “You know what? I don’t care! Get yerself killed, see if I come to yer rescue. And I’m givin’ you me notice right now. I’ll finish the six months and after that I’m gone.” He pulls open the door and then turns back to Ben. “Whitney was right about you. She told me to get out, soon as I could. She was right. I’m takin’ the day off, goin’ sight-seein’.”  
Ben watches the door close behind him with a feeling that he might have messed up. Well, whatever. Callum’s just throwing a hissy fit because Ben spent the night with someone who isn’t him. He’ll come round before the six months is up. What was that he was saying on the plane? You should always expect the best of people, see the good in them?  
Ben ignores the quiet but insistent voice in his head that’s telling him maybe there isn’t any good in him for Callum to see. Well fuck it! He coped when Whitney left, he’ll cope again, even though this feels like it might be a bit different. He didn’t even like Whitney. They didn’t connect on any level so she wasn’t a great loss. Callum, though… he can be quite good company when he’s not in mother hen mode.

Ben wanders around his room for a bit and then decides he may as well get a bit more work done on chapter three. He settles down at the desk, with its view out over the skyscrapers of New York, and stares out of the window for a bit. He opens up his laptop and reads over what he’s written so far and corrects a couple of typos, then begins.  
After twenty minutes he slams his palms down on the desk in disgust and throws himself back in his chair. What he’s written is absolute rubbish, not even worthy of a GCSE essay-writing exam. His brain’s shooting off in all directions and he just can’t get it to focus on the task in hand. He presses his finger down hard on the ‘delete’ key and leaves it there until every last trace of what he’s written that morning has disappeared.  
It would have been quite nice to have gone sight-seeing today, while he’s got no personal appearances to make at the festival and his time’s his own. He doesn’t normally get to see much more than his hotel room and the venue when he does these tours, not least because he’s never had a travelling companion that he would actually want to – you know – travel with.  
He wonders what Callum’s up to, what he’s chosen to visit. The Empire State Building? The Statue of Liberty? Has he taken a trip on the ferry across to Staten Island? Is he chatting to his fellow-passengers? Is there someone, some bloke, who’s caught his eye? Ben’s not sure why that last thought leaves him feeling even more grumpy than before.  
He needs to walk this mood off. He gathers his wallet and phone, and heads out. He’ll go to Central Park, get some fresh air, do some people-watching – that usually improves his mood.  
An hour later, perched on a bench in the sunshine with a take-out coffee in his hand, he wonders if he ought to text Callum. Objectively speaking, he does probably owe him an apology.  
He takes out his phone and agonises over what to text. How do you apologise without admitting that you might have been in the wrong? He decides being non-specific is the way to go, so he types just the single word: Sorry. He stares it at before he sends it, and then adds, Enjoying your sight-seeing?  
The reply comes over twenty minutes later. Callum’s obviously decided to make him stew for a while. On corner of 23rd and 39th in a café.  
As Ben stares down at it, another message pings in. Want to join?  
He checks the location in Google Maps and sets off heading due east, texting as he walks. Be there in 15.  
When he gets to the café he sees Callum sitting at the counter in the window, staring down at his drink. He looks sad.  
“You didn’t get very far,” says Ben when he’s made his way through the café and is standing at Callum’s shoulder.  
The older man starts, and turns round to give him a sheepish smile. “Nah, got caught up people-watchin’. And doin’ a bit of thinkin’, too.”  
The smile Ben gives him in return is no less sheepish. “Bad for yer health, that. People-watchin’ though, that’s one of me favourite pastimes. Let me get meself a drink and then you can tell me who ya’ve spotted. You want anythin’?”  
“Nah, I’m alright thanks.”  
“So, that bloke there,” Ben says once he’s settled next to Callum with a coffee. “The one with the purple shopping bag. Tell me about him.”  
Callum tips his head on one side and regards the man as he waits to cross the street. “Lives on his own. Got a parakeet who he talks to more than he talks to anyone else he knows. Goes to his daughter’s most Sundays for lunch but don’t stay long cos he don’t like her boyfriend.”  
“Shame,” says Ben.  
“Yeah. His wife died, see. Nearly thirteen years ago now. He never got over it. Makes out like she was his one true love but in all honesty they fought like cat and dog when she was alive.”  
“They do say you hurt those closest to ya,” furnishes Ben.  
“Yeah.”  
They lapse into silence. Ben’s comment feels a little too close to home to be comfortable. He clears his throat. “You could write novels, ya know. You got a good imagination.”  
Callum gives a self-deprecating chuckle. “Nah. I ain’t got the first idea about grammar or none of that.”  
“Ah, you can learn that. You just gotta have that spark of a story, gotta know how to tell it.”  
Callum smiles at him but looks away and follows the progress of an old lady walking an aged Yorkshire terrier slowly past the café window. “How’s your day goin’?” he asks eventually.  
Ben huffs out a breath. “Had better. I tried to do a bit more on chapter three but me brain wouldn’t focus.”  
He feels Callum staring at him for a few seconds and tries to ignore how awkward it makes him feel.  
You wanna go on an adventure?” asks Callum.  
“An adventure? What kind?”  
“The kind where ya set off without knowing exactly where yer gonna end up. An exploring adventure.”  
Callum’s eyes are suddenly shining. Ben finds it hard to look away from them. “You sure that won’t put ya outside yer comfort zone Callum?”  
Callum rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll cope. Come on, choose what you wanna take with ya for yer lunch. I’ll buy this time.”

They wander downtown looking into shop windows and watching street entertainers, and end up on the Staten Island ferry, the breeze whipping around their faces and the Statue of Liberty gliding serenely past as the little ferry makes its choppy way from Manhattan. They take selfies with her in the background, and it’s nice. Ben feels like a normal person for once. Where usually he would roll his eyes at the tourists doing typically touristy things, he becomes one of them, and Callum’s natural enthusiasm for life makes Ben’s previous categorisation of things as ‘cool’ or ‘uncool’ meaningless.  
“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, when they’re sitting on the deck of the ferry a few minutes from Staten Island. “I shoulda called ya, let ya know I was OK.”  
Callum’s face instantly becomes serious. “Yeah, you should. I was worried.”  
Ben turns his face up to the sun, and they sit in silence for a while.  
“So,” says Callum eventually. “How was last night? With Gus?”  
Ben shrugs. “It was alright. It passed the time.”  
He can feel Callum watching him carefully again, and he closes his eyes.  
“I dunno how ya can do it,” says Callum. “Go off with a perfect stranger and spend the night.”  
“Everyone’s a stranger to start with,” points out Ben.  
“Yeah, but you don’t never see ‘em again. D’ya never want somethin’ more?”  
“Nope,” says Ben. He ponders the question a little more. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t work, would it? People do not stick around, Callum. They just hurt ya and move on.”  
“Is that why ya do it?”  
“Do what?”  
“Move on before they can? Stop yerself gettin’ too close in case ya get hurt?”  
Ben opens his eyes and swings round to look at him. “Remember what I said, Callum? If I want character analysis I won’t be comin’ to me assistant.”  
“Sorry.” Callum looks away quickly. It seems they’re both trying their hardest not to annoy each other today, and in truth, they’re having a nice afternoon. It would be a pity to spoil it.  
They watch a little boy run past them, followed somewhat slower by his father. The kid is excited, pointing out the Statue of Liberty and asking his dad what it’s called. The bloke wanders after him, nose in his phone, ignoring him, only raising his head every now and again to shout at the boy to be quiet and give him some peace.  
“He thought there was somethin’ between us,” says Ben. “Gus. He thought maybe we was an item.”  
“Huh,” says Callum.  
“Funny, eh?”  
“Yeah, hilarious.”  
Callum looks past him at the view.  
The boy is trailing after his dad now. He wheels round and round on the deck and comes to a stop in front of Ben and Callum, staring curiously at them. Ben rummages in his pocket and brings out a bag of candy they’d bought back in Manhattan. He beckons to the boy. “’S the Statue of Liberty, mate.” He holds out the bag and the little boy looks up at him, wide-eyed, before taking a candy. “One day,” says Ben conspiratorially, “one day, when yer a bit bigger, you’ll be able to kick yer dad’s arse when he talks to ya like that.”  
The little boy beams, and runs off to catch up with his father, who hasn’t even noticed he’s fallen behind, still focused as he is on his phone. Ben bends his head to get the candy bag back in his pocket, and when he looks up again, Callum is gazing at him like maybe, just maybe, he hung the moon and stars.  
“That was lovely, Ben. A lovely thing to do.”  
Ben shrugs, feeling his skin heat up. “C’mon. Time to get off.”

EIGHT  
Ben stretches luxuriantly and reaches for his phone to check the time. Eighty twenty-two. He’d better get up soon, he’s got that surprise appearance at the writing workshop at eleven. He fumbles for his glasses and spends a few more minutes staring blearily at his phone, checking his messages.  
Memories of yesterday come filtering back to him. It had been nice. That word had been at the front of his thoughts for most of the afternoon, and for once he’d been using it sincerely. Usually, he would consider ‘nice’ damning with faint praise, using it as personal shorthand for ‘safe’, ‘twee’, ‘too straight’. Yesterday, using the word in its most un-ironic sense had fitted the occasion perfectly. After returning from Staten Island, he and Callum had wandered back through the city and ended up in a nice (that word again!) little restaurant where the food had been good and the service relaxed, and they’d whiled away a few hours chatting easily, before going their separate ways when they got back to the hotel at about eleven.  
Ben flips into his photo library on his phone, and scrolls through the pictures he’d taken yesterday, coming to rest on a selfie of the two of them with the Statue of Liberty in the background. It looks like the kind of picture lesser men would have as their screensaver. He snorts at the thought and throws his phone to one side, before sliding out of bed and heading for the shower.  
Callum’s already at breakfast when Ben finally makes it down to the half-empty dining room. He smiles easily, but Ben’s pleased to note that he doesn’t try to be over-familiar. He doesn’t assume that because they spent some time together yesterday they’re suddenly best buddies. He orders from the waitress and pours himself a coffee from what’s left of Callum’s pot. Callum doesn’t object. It’s what Ben likes about him; he doesn’t sweat the small stuff. Just the big stuff… like death threats and missing authors.  
“God I needed that!” he exclaims after his first noisy slurp.  
“What time ya settin’ off?” asks Callum.  
“’Bout ten,” says Ben. “You comin’ along?”  
“Course. Gotta make sure no crazy makes a lunge at ya, and besides, I wanna see ya with yer adoring public.”  
Callum grins at him, and Ben narrows his eyes, suspecting sarcasm.  
“I meant to say,” adds Callum. “You was great. The other night in front of that massive audience, ya had ‘em eatin’ out the palm of yer hand.”  
“Er, thanks,” says Ben, feeling his cheeks heat up.  
“Yer a natural, it felt like we all got to see the real you up there on that stage.”  
Ben folds his arms and rolls his eyes. “OK, OK, I bought ya dinner last night, ya don’t have to flatter me no more.”  
Callum chuckles. “Just take a compliment, can’t ya?”  
Ben gives him a hard stare, and thankfully the idiot shuts up. Ben is not a morning person, at the best of times.  
Callum relaxes back in his chair and stares around the dining room as Ben’s food is served and he sets about demolishing his plate of pancakes. The silence between them is easy, there are no undercurrents of anger or frustration as there have been recently. Ben could get used to this… this…companionship, although Callum’s not mentioned anything about rescinding his notice. He’ll be leaving Ben in five months’ time, he’d better not get too comfortable with it.  
“What Gus said,” says Callum eventually. He sounds hesitant. He waves a hand between the two of them. “About us. He got the wrong impression, ya know.”  
“I know he did,” says Ben, wondering why Callum’s seeing fit to state the obvious.  
“I mean, yer me boss,” adds Callum. “It would be unprofessional.”  
Ben uses his urgent need for more coffee as an excuse to ignore the questioning glance Callum throws in his direction.

As Ben had expected, there are gasps of surprise and pleasure when he steps through the door of the room where the crime writing workshop is being held. There are twelve participants, mostly middle-aged men and women, but with a scruffy younger man at the back and a very young girl dressed entirely in white, looking like a character from the Virgin Suicides right at the front. From the looks on their faces, they know their crime well. They all know who he is without an introduction, although Kally, the author leading the session, introduces him anyway, while Callum makes his way to the back of the room to lean against the wall for the duration.  
“So, we’ve carried out a couple of writing exercises already,” explains Kally, “just to loosen everyone up. How about we turn this into an impromptu question and answer session? If anyone knows how to sustain plot and character, it’s Ben here, so ask away guys. Learn all ya can from him.” She turns to Ben. “Anything off limits?”  
“Personal stuff, yeah,” says Ben, to chuckles from around the room, ““and besides, most of it’s in the tabloids anyway if ya care to look, but anythin’ ya wanna know about puttin’ a novel together, to gettin’ it published, gettin’ noticed by agents, ask away.”  
“OK guys. Who’s first up?”  
Virgin Suicide girl in the front row immediately raises her hand. Her question is asked in a voice so quiet that Ben strains to hear her. “How do you write realistic dialogue?”  
“Ah, well, dialogue is one of the hardest things to get right,” says Ben, leaning back against the table at the front of the room and folding his arms. He watches as the girl writes down every third word he says. “If ya do get it right though, yer halfway to creatin’ believable characters. I think when yer first startin’ out as a writer, you strive to get yer grammar right, you wanna show that ya know the rules. But all them rules go out the window when it comes to writin’ dialogue. How many people d’ya know who speak in proper grammatical sentences?”  
“None,” whispers the young woman. Ben looks around the room, inviting others to answer. There’s a general murmuring of ‘none’.  
“Exactly! Ya gotta listen to the words they use, the rhythms of their language, the short-cuts they take. If ya’ve got more than one person in a conversation you’ll hear ‘em cuttin’ in, talkin’ over each other. Experiment with it, try out a few ideas til ya think you’ve got it spot-on. And another thing.” Ben leans forward, getting carried away with his theme. “This is a personal bug-bear of mine. Don’t splurge out all the information a character’s got to give in one long paragraph. Nobody walks into a room and says ‘I must tell you that I’m unhappy because I just saw me dog gettin’ run over and now I feel like I’ve got to kill you because you drive a car that’s the same colour as the one that killed’ im.” There are laughs from around the room. He sees smiles on the faces of everyone except the younger man sitting in the back row. He’s concentrating, looking intense. “What’s the point of writing a novel if yer gonna give everythin’ away in just one speech?” Ben continues. “It’s borin’, it don’t pull me in as a reader, an’ it’s the quickest way to tell an amateur from the professionals.”  
Ben comes to a stop, but then another thought occurs to him. “Just cos you can ignore all the rules when it comes to dialogue, it don’t mean ya can ignore punctuation, though – and yer grammar’s gotta be right everywhere else, an’ all.” He smiles. “Someone once asked me how I did it. They said, I don’t write like I speak. I think the implication was, they was a bit disappointed I didn’t talk proper.”  
There are more chuckles from around the room, and at the back, Callum raises his head from where he’d been staring at the floor and throws Ben a smile, evidently remembering the conversation Ben’s referring to. It feels like the sun coming out, and Ben spends the next few minutes mentally castigating himself for using such a lazy, hackneyed, over-sentimental phrase. A phrase that came out of nowhere and doesn’t represent the reality in any case. It’s as gloomy as ever in his world. Callum is just passing through.  
“Who’s next?” asks Kally. There is a flurry of hands waving in the air, and she picks the younger man at the back. “You sir, what’s your question?”  
“Ah yes,” says the man, with an English accent. “I wanted to pick up on something you said earlier, Ben. You mentioned ‘putting together’ a novel, and that sounded a bit mechanical to me. It sounded a bit like a factory line, where you construct something and then move onto the next. What about inspiration, creativity, art? You could just as easily be producing widgets.”  
The atmosphere in the room changes. It definitely becomes a couple of degrees colder and the silence from everyone else is thicker. One or two people turn to look at the speaker. From the corner of his eye Ben can see Callum watching him carefully as he gives the bloke a close once-over. There’s always one like him, who thinks he’s creating high art and whatever the best-selling authors produce is inferior rubbish. Who’s got the publishing deal, though? This bloke looks vaguely familiar. Maybe he’s been at other events. Maybe he just fits the type.  
“Well,” begins Ben. “Here’s a dose of reality for ya. If ya ever make it big, you’ll realise that the publishin’ world is indeed like a factory line. Writing crime, there’s definitely an expectation that you’ll churn one out after the other. Take me, for example. I spend six months of every year writing me next book. Then I spend the other six months promotin’ it, and on and on, with no break. The challenge is to keep yer writing fresh and original, with no drop in quality, and that’s all about creativity, but if ya wanna be producin’ meaningful art that will influence generations, maybe crime writin’ ain’t the right genre for ya.”  
He lets his gaze slide over the man and invites more questions before he can respond. A middle-aged woman with a jumper depicting kittens stretched over her ample bosom pipes up next.  
“I’m a Nancy.”  
Ben resists the urge to say ‘me too!’.  
“A Nancy, like Nancy Drew, the detective.” It’s obviously a joke she’s made before, and Ben smiles politely. “My question is, who do you base your characters on? I mean, your detective, Foxton Thwaite, he’s such a nasty piece of work I refuse to believe he was created in that lovely head of yours. He must be based on someone.”  
She tucks her hair back behind her ear and throws Ben a coy smile that should never, ever, appear on the face of a woman of her age.  
Ben holds in a shudder. “I get asked this question a lot,” he begins.  
Understatement of the year.  
“I’m not writin’ a biography, so Foxton’s not based on any one person.” He tugs on his ear and scratches his nose while he formulates his next sentence. “My characters are a mash-up of people I’ve known, people I see on telly, on public transport, you name it. I take bits and pieces from all over the place and put ‘em all together.”  
He gazes out over the room to lock eyes with Callum, who’s now hanging on his every word, as engrossed as everyone else in the room. Apart from the English guy, who’s resting his head on his arms on the table and seems to have gone to sleep. “I’ve got a new character in me next book, for example,” says Ben. “A rookie cop who’s meetin’ Foxton Thwaite for the very first time, and he seems to be remindin’ me of someone I met quite recently. The more I write him, the more I can see of this person in ‘im. ‘S funny, how the subconscious works.” He breaks eye contact with Callum and smiles around the room. “Who knows? Maybe one or two of you’ll end up in me book, too!”  
There are more polite chuckles, and the middle-aged woman with the kitten jumper nods enthusiastically. The session continues with a variety of questions, none of which are particularly original or difficult for Ben to answer, until Kally starts to draw proceedings to a close.  
“I’m so sorry, I’ve used up nearly all yer session,” says Ben, charm personified.  
“Absolutely not a problem,” says Kally, waving away his apology. “I’m sure folks have benefitted more from talking to you than they would have running through the exercises I had planned.”  
“Might’ve been more constructive though,” observes the younger bloke at the back. There are a few indrawn breaths around the room, and Kally smiles uncertainly before deciding to ignore him.  
“So, Ben, would you be happy to stick around in case anyone wants you to sign anything?”  
“Course,” says Ben, noting the look of outrage on Callum’s face as he glares down at the bloke from his position just behind him. He’s obviously back in mother hen mode.  
The attendees give Ben a round of applause, and then some prepare to make their departures, those who want to stay for the signing digging in their bags for copies of his books or festival programmes for him to sign. Kitten woman stays, as does the teenage girl and a couple of others. Ben’s surprised to see that the English man stays too, although that could just be because he’s comfortable after his snooze and doesn’t want to stir yet. Ben can’t see that he’s searching for anything to get signed.  
“I absolutely didn’t mind you taking over,” says Kally in an aside to Ben as everyone starts moving around. “Means I didn’t have to prepare quite so much for my session.”  
“Ah, sneaky,” says Ben, rounding the table to sit down ready for the signing session. “With a devious mind like that you could write crime novels.”  
She winks at him.  
“What was the standard of writin’ like?” asks Ben, “When you got ‘em to share their work?”  
A pained look comes over Kally’s face. “Excruciating,” she whispers. “Even from Mr High-Culture at the back there.” She claps him on the arm in a friendly gesture of solidarity, and then wanders to the back of the room to stand beside Callum while Ben starts to sign things for his adoring public. He watches as Callum engages her in conversation immediately, and glances up every now and again to see them getting on famously.  
Kitten woman is up first. She stands stock-still for a second, her head on one side, and then throws open her arms with a wide smile on her face. “Can I get a hug, Ben? I’ve waited for this moment for so long.”  
“Uh, yeah.” Ben considers his options and then stands up to submit to her bosomy embrace, thankful that there’s a table between them so she can’t suffocate him entirely.  
“I’m such a huge fan,” says the woman. “Such a huge fan, you have no idea.” She whips out a festival programme. “Would ya sign this for me? Could I tell ya what to write?”  
Ben sits down and picks up his pen. “Fire away.”  
“Huh?” The woman looks confused for a second, but then her frown fades into another wide smile. “Ah, that’s one of your English idioms, ain’t it? So cute!”  
Ben hasn’t been called cute for a long time, and certainly not by any middle-aged women.  
“Write: ‘to my dear friend Nancy, wishing you every success in your writing. You’re a real talent. Much love, Ben Mitchell’. And put a few kisses too, wouldya?”  
“Uh…” Ben tries to find a way of being tactful. “Why don’t I just write, ‘To Nancy, best wishes, Ben?’  
Her face falls and an ugly, set expression appears on it instead. She snatches the programme back from him when he’s signed it, and shoves it into her bag. “I’ve bought every single one of your books, young man – hardback and paperback. Not anymore. Not. Any. More. I think I’ll follow Jack Branning in future. He’s such a charming man.”  
Ben sighs as she takes her leave. Today is turning out to be a lot more trying than he expected.  
Two of the middle-aged men turn out to be together, and they’re next in the little queue. They fawn over him in a way that leaves him feeling quite exposed and wondering if he can level a compensation claim against the festival for sexual harrassment. He glances over to check that Callum’s keeping an eye on proceedings, throwing him a pleading look when he finally makes eye contact. Callum doesn’t stop his conversation with Kally, but he does give a brief nod, as if to tell Ben that he’s monitoring the situation. Somehow, it reassures Ben immediately.  
Eventually, the two men step aside, and it’s the turn of teenage Virgin Suicides girl, who can barely speak as he tries to engage her in conversation about anything she might be working on at the moment. She’s blond and delicate, and stares intently at him in a way that gives him the creeps, so he gives up trying to make conversation and makes a start on signing the book she’s brought with her. It’s a copy of ‘Flowers of Death’, his second book and his least favourite. As he’s signing with a flourish, he hears her whisper something very close to his ear. Startled at her sudden proximity, he looks up to see tears in her eyes.  
“I got the messages,” she whispers.  
“Uh, what?”  
“The messages from you. I got them. I left some of my own.”  
Ben’s heart starts hammering in his chest. “Uh, Callum,” he calls gently, trying not to spook the girl with a loud shout.  
She opens her satchel and starts rummaging inside it, and he watches with his heart in his mouth as she draws out a pair of dressmaking scissors and a manuscript.  
“Callum!” He glances over towards the back of the room, and sees that Callum is still deep in conversation. In front of him, the English man has raised his head, picking up on the tone of Ben’s voice, and is watching intently. He stands up and starts to make his way steadily towards the desk Ben is sitting at, keeping a close eye on the girl.  
“It’s in here,” she says.  
Ben swings his attention back round to her. She’s holding out the manuscript, and the scissors are clutched in her left hand, pointing directly at him. “More of my messages. Here. I need some of your hair.”  
She pushes the scissors nearer to him and he takes a quick step back. By now, the English man is right behind the girl, and Ben is vaguely aware that Callum has noticed there’s a problem. He’s making his way across the room too.  
The girl begins to cry more loudly, wailing and waving the scissors around as she tried to make Ben understand what he means to her in words that are fractured and broken by sobs.  
“Jesus, Callum! Help me out here!” shouts Ben.  
The English man is nearer, and he grabs the girl from behind, wrenching her wrist until the scissors fall to the floor. At the same time, Kally has crossed to the door and has poked her head out of the door, calling frantically for security.  
Once disarmed, the girl seems to crumple in a heap, and security arrive a couple of minutes later to pick her up.  
“Be gentle with her!” shouts Ben as they manhandle her out of the room. “She ain’t well, clearly. She don’t know what she’s doin’.”  
He’s suddenly hit with an adrenaline rush so huge his legs feel like they’ve just dissolved, and he sits down heavily before he falls.  
“Oh my god!” exclaims Kally. She sits down opposite him, her eyes still wide with alarm. “Ben, are you OK?”  
Ben places his face in his hands and takes a few deep breaths. He’s dimly aware that someone has placed their arms around him, and he succumbs to the comfort they provide for a few seconds, before shrugging them off. Dropping his hands from his face, he sees that it’s Callum who was holding him. “Yer alright, Ben. Yer safe.”  
“No thanks to you!” exclaims Ben, rounding on him violently. “Thought you was supposed to be a body guard. If that bloke hadn’t bin ‘ere I mightta…”  
He trails off, unwilling to contemplate what might have happened if the man hadn’t come to his rescue. He looks round to thank him, but he’s vanished. The three of them are alone in the room.

There’s a blue saloon car that Ben’s sure has been following their taxi since they left the festival venue. He peers through the rear window and tries to make out the driver, but the spring sunlight is shining on the windscreen.  
He’s still shaken up. Every now and again a tremor will work its way through his body, and all he wants is to get back to the hotel and get himself a stiff brandy.  
After the girl had been removed, Callum, Ben and Kally had sat in silence, all trying to process what had happened. Objectively speaking, it hadn’t been a serious incident. Ben could probably have overpowered the girl if he hadn’t been taken unawares, and he’d told the police he didn’t want to press any charges. He felt sorry for the kid. He couldn’t deny though that he also felt unsettled. So she was the one who’d stolen his clothes, let herself into his room. He couldn’t imagine how she’d gone about it, but the empty look in her eyes will stay in his nightmares for weeks.  
He shudders once again, and Callum runs a hand down his arm. “You OK?”  
“Stop askin’ me that,” hisses Ben. “You was absolutely no help back there whatsoever.”  
“I know,” says Callum. “I’m sorry. I’m beatin’ meself up about it, you don’t need to an’ all.”  
“But I might anyway,” retorts Ben. “You was more concerned to make friends with Kally than you was to protect me. Probably just as well yer leavin’ in a few months. Let’s hope I’m still alive by that point, shall we?”  
Callum opens his mouth to respond but then thinks better of it, and they continue their journey in silence.  
The taxi takes a right and then a left, and behind them, so does the blue saloon car. Ben tells himself not to be so paranoid. The threat’s been identified and removed; he’ll be safe now.  
When they pull up outside their hotel ten minutes later Ben looks around for the car. The street is busy; streams of traffic crawling along amidst a cacophony of blaring horns and noisy radios coming from open windows. The blue saloon is nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was just a function of his paranoia. He takes a last look around, to be certain, and then mounts the steps up to the hotel entrance. Once inside, he heads for the bar. Callum trails silently along behind him.  
“Brandy,” orders Ben, and the bartender smiles obligingly. “Actually, make that a bottle,” corrects Ben. “And - ” he looks enquiringly at Callum “two glasses?”  
Callum nods, still looking shaken and shamefaced at his failure to keep Ben safe.  
“Let’s take this up to me room,” says Ben, throwing a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and grabbing the bottle and glasses.  
Upstairs it’s quiet. Most guests are out sightseeing or busy at work at this time of the day, and the chambermaids have long since finished their work. The empty corridor is menacing in its silence, and Ben is spooked at every blind corner, his heart in his mouth. He’s glad when they’re finally in the safety of his room – although hotel rooms hadn’t been that safe before, given that the girl had managed to get in to leave the message on the bathroom mirror. He tries to think back to Washington, to the airport, to see if he can only now remember seeing her there, a flash of white amongst the other people around him. He doesn’t recall anything.  
He sets down the glasses on the desk in front of the window and tries to open the bottle of brandy. “Well,” he says. “At least we know that little episode’s over. Thank god.” He fumbles with the bottle but finds that his hands are shaking. Ridiculous! Why would some kid scare him to this extent? Only now does he realise that he’s been on tenterhooks since their first night in the country. He’s been trying to ignore it, but the threat’s been on his mind for a long time. He shoves the bottle back down on the desk and puts his head in his hands. “Jesus!”  
Instantly Callum is by his side. “Hey, c’mere.” He takes him in his arms and holds him close in a big bear-hug. Ben struggles to free himself, but finally submits, burying his face in Callum’s chest and trying to control the shakes that are taking over his whole body. Maybe he can’t always look after himself. Maybe he does need other people from time to time.  
“’S alright,” whispers Callum, stroking a hand up and down Ben’s back. “’S alright, yer safe, Ben. I’ve got ya.”  
His voice is so soft, so full of concern, that Ben weakens. The walls he’d built up for so many years to protect himself; the independence, the toughness, all of it begins to crumble away. He’s back to being a scared little boy who just wants someone to look after him.  
Maybe Callum could be the one.  
He nuzzles Callum’s neck and then plants a soft kiss on his jawline. He hears Callum suck in a quick breath, but he doesn’t push him away. Emboldened, Ben raises his head further and plants another kiss on the corner of Callum’s mouth. He can feel that Callum’s body has stiffened, he’s holding himself rigid in an attempt to resist Ben, but still he doesn’t push him away.  
Glancing up at him, Ben can see that Callum’s eyes are panicked, but there’s something else there too. Desire, lust. Callum wants him.  
Ben takes his face in his hands and kisses him properly, darting his tongue against Callum’s lips until the older man opens up for him, and then both their walls come down and it’s frenzied, each of them battling the other for dominance. Callum walks him backwards until he feels the edge of the bed at the back of his knees, and they tumble onto it together, lips still melded, rolling over and over in a messy, haphazard effort to get as close to one another as two men possibly can while there’s still two layers of clothing between them.  
There’s clothing between them.  
Ben’s brain signals that that just isn’t right, and he pulls back momentarily, panting. Callum’s pupils are blown, and there’s no chance that he’s going to back out of this now. Ben can see from his wide eyes and gaping mouth as he draws in draughts of air that he’s as far gone as Ben is. Nevertheless, he can’t resist toying with him. He pushes him onto his back and kneels above him.  
“I’m gonna do somethin’ now,” he pants. “I know it’s gonna traumatise ya, but d’ya think maybe you could be a big brave soldier?”  
Callum’s eyes grow wider. Ben hadn’t thought such a thing was possible. “What?” asks Callum in a husky voice.  
“Gonna get me cock out,” says Ben.  
Immediately Callum’s expression changes. “Very funny! I only get traumatised when I’m not supposed to be seein’ it.”  
“Yeah well,” Ben pops the button on his jeans and lowers his zip slowly, “today, you have permission. Don’t wanna scare ya off though, so I’m gonna take this slow, OK?”  
He takes an age to unfasten his jeans, and sees with glee that Callum is watching every move of his fingers with rapt attention. Ben throws off his shirt before uncovering anything more, and he watches as Callum’s breathing becomes more erratic.  
He returns his fingers to his jeans, putting on a show for Callum, until suddenly, Callum’s resolve snaps. “Give it ‘ere!” he exclaims, and makes a dive for Ben’s jeans, rolling him onto his back and pulling his jeans roughly down his thighs. Ben’s boxers come down at the same time so that his hard cock springs free, and Callum goes to town on it, sucking it into his mouth and feasting on it.  
It’s messy and imperfect, and far from the best blow job Ben’s ever received, but somehow it’s very imperfection makes it perfect. He throws an arm across his eyes and loses himself in the feeling of Callum’s warm mouth, today’s panacea for all Ben’s hurts and ills. 

The single bedside light throws a soft arc of illumination over the bed. On the desk across near the window, empty plates are stacked. Beside Ben on the bedside table, the brandy bottle is two-thirds empty. It’s late, almost midnight, and they’ve spent the entire afternoon and evening in bed, drinking and making love repeatedly in a slow, languid manner that Ben just isn’t used to. At about five, they’d both realised they were starving and called down for room service, and then gone at it again for the rest of the evening. Now, they’re lying in each other’s arms in a way that Ben never does with his other conquests, and he can’t help but feel that this is somehow different. It’s not an uncomfortable feeling. He could get used to it, as long as the nagging voices in his head stay quiet. The ones that tell him getting this close to someone is dangerous, can only end in heartache. Maybe he needs to have that conversation with Callum sometime soon, the one where he graciously refuses Callum’s notice and generously extends his contract.  
Callum is tracing soft circles on Ben’s shoulder, and Ben buries his face into his chest. He’s a little bit drunk, a little bit mellow from all the hormones floating around in his system. The lights are low; it feels like a scene set for confidences.  
“It was me dad,” he murmurs, a propos of nothing.  
Callum glances down at him. “Huh?”  
“Foxton Thwaite. He’s pretty much me dad. That’s who I based ‘im on, although, ‘based on’ implies I changed some things.”  
“Huh,” repeats Callum, only now there’s less of a questioning quality to the word, more of a recognition. “He’s a bastard though.”  
“Yeah,” says Ben simply. He chuckles softly. “I started writin’ to escape me world, and I s’pose a part of me wrote about ‘im cos I was tryin’ to make sense of it all. Why he treated me so bad. Why other people didn’t have dads like ‘im. What I was doin’ wrong, to make ‘im like it.”  
“Ben - ”  
“Oh, I know, it weren’t me fault,” says Ben, cutting off what he’s sure Callum had been about to say. “I know that now I’m older. The irony is, though, I wrote that first book for all them reasons, and then it got published. And then they wanted another one, and another one, and I’m stuck now. I can’t get rid of the bastard.” He chuckles again, ruefully. “I’m trapped in this never-ending nightmare where I’ve gotta write about the one thing I wanna leave behind. Feels like I’ll never escape.”  
“You could kill ‘im off,” murmurs Callum.  
“Nah, I couldn’t. The public would go mad. Me publishers would go mad; they’re makin’ a lot of money outta Foxton Thwaite, the old bastard.”  
Callum squeezes his shoulders gently. “Well then, if ya can’t kill ‘im off, change ‘im. Make ‘im into someone who ain’t yer dad.”  
Ben shifts round to look up at him. “An’ how do I do that?”  
“I dunno.” Callum shrugs. “Make ‘im gay or somethin’. Make ‘im come out, late in life.”  
He grins down at Ben, and Ben snorts in glee. “Can you imagine?”  
Callum kisses the smile on his face.

NINE  
Callum has long eye lashes, almost too long for a man. Ben lies quietly and watches the way they flutter as Callum slowly emerges from the deep sleep he’d been in. This is unusual for Ben. Very unusual. Normally he’d creep out of bed as soon as he awoke, trying to avoid at all costs that awkward moment when you wake up next to a complete stranger you have no intention of seeing again. It feels like too great a degree of intimacy, to wake up in bed together when the spell from last night’s been broken, when your two lives have already begun to diverge, lines that were parallel for just a matter of hours already beginning to grow distant, separate.  
This morning, though, he’s not with a stranger. He’s with someone he thinks he’s getting to know quite well, so he lingers, resting his cheek on his hand on the pillow and watching for the first signs of consciousness in Callum’s eyes. Maybe this morning Ben will have the discussion with him, tell him he won’t be accepting his notice. In fact, he’ll be extending his contract indefinitely.  
Callum looks younger and more vulnerable while he sleeps. He swallows, and then smacks his lips in the last vestiges of his slumber. Ben sees his nose twitch, and then his eyelids begin to flutter. He opens his eyes, unseeing at first. His vision clears into full consciousness and he finally sees Ben.  
Immediately his eyes fill with panic, and Ben feels his heart drop. His stupid, idiotic heart that had taken flight, only to come crashing back down to earth with a bump right now. Callum is regretting what they’d done yesterday. Of course he is! Who in their right mind would think it was a good idea to get together with Ben Mitchell?  
“Gotta get on,” he mumbles, and slides out of bed before Callum can say a word. He doesn’t need to tell Ben it was a mistake, Ben can see it written all over his face.  
“Ben - ”  
Whatever words he was about to say are lost, shut out by the bathroom door that Ben kicks shut between them.  
He turns the shower up as hot as he can stand it, and lets it rain down on him, washing away only a tiny part of the shame and the embarrassment. It must have been the brandy that led him to get so carried away with himself yesterday, imagining that Callum would want to continue whatever they’d indulged in for those few short hours.  
Laughable.  
He’s already let Ben know what he thinks of him: he’s leaving him, as soon as he possibly can without failing in his duty. Callum is nothing if not a dutiful man, he’ll see out his contract because that’s what he does. He’s an honourable man. It’s for that reason that Ben knows there won’t be any kiss and tell stories in the press once Callum’s finally free of him. He wouldn’t do that, but Ben should listen to those voices in his head that tell him getting close to someone can only ever end in hurt and heartache. He’d dared to hope, and that’s a dangerous thing to do.  
When he’s dried himself off from his shower and stepped back into the bedroom, Callum is already dressed and heading for the door. He stops, looking guilty, making an obvious effort not to look down at Ben’s dick. “Thought I’d give you yer space.”  
“Right,” says Ben. “Go on then.”  
“Right, OK,” says Callum, yet he lingers, and clears his throat.  
Ben doesn’t want to hear them, the polite excuses. He knows what they’ll be, he’s uttered them often enough himself. ‘I’m not looking for anything serious. If I’m ever in town again I’ll hit you up, yeah, course. It was great. You were great.’  
“Right, well I wanna get some writing done this mornin’, so ya’d better get lost, give me a bit of space. I’ll order breakfast in me room. See ya later Callum.”  
Callum stares at him intently, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times. Ben can see in his eyes that he still wants to say his piece, wants to get them out of this awkwardness with as much grace as possible. Instead, when he finally settles on some words, he says, “What time do we need to leave for the panel session?”  
“’Bout two.”  
Callum nods his head, still looking as if he wants to say more, but then turns on his heel and leaves. Ben lets out a shuddering sigh as the door closes behind him. He fucked up, let his guard down. What on earth was he thinking? He’s an idiot, he knows that; he’d had it drummed into him often enough, but Callum had made him dare to think he could be something more. Well, not anymore. He’s learned his lesson.

Once dressed, he orders room service and settles down in front of his laptop. In the neighbouring room he hears the shower go on, and try as he might he can’t prevent himself from picturing Callum’s long, lean body as he soaps himself up under the water. A body that Ben knows intimately now, one that he could pick out from a line-up with no trouble, knowing as he does about the freckle on the inside of Callum’s left thigh, the faint acne scars over the top of his back; the way Callum’s nipples get hard as bullets from the lightest touch. A body that he wants more than ever now that he’s had a taste of it; now that Callum’s withholding it from him.  
He sighs and curses himself for his stupidity, and starts a new paragraph in chapter three. It’ll pass. If he hardens his heart, it will pass.

“Thwaite watched the younger man as he stepped carefully around the body, noting the constable’s eyes tighten in distaste at what they saw, the smears of blood, the viscera spilling from the left side of the stomach. He’s unsettling, provoking feelings in Thwaite that he can’t identify. The wide blue eyes with the long lashes were like none Thwaite had ever seen on a man before. Mesmerising. That was the word.  
“Foxton.” The chief superintendent pulled him to one side. “This is an important case, an important victim. Don’t mess it up, you hear me?”  
Thwaite took a moment to swallow down the unholy cocktail of concern and euphoria that the young constable had stimulated in him and turned to give Carson his full attention.”

Ben sits back in his chair. Is he really doing this? Is Foxton Thwaite going to develop feelings for the young constable who’s becoming more and more like Callum the more Ben writes him? He wonders if he should consult with his publishers before he goes very much further. It’s a huge change, and one he’s not sure the public will like, not to mention the fact that it will probably mean Ben has to come out publicly too – no more planted stories about his prowess with the ladies to throw the public off the scent; no more pretending a life that fits better with the gritty, masculine books he writes. Ben’s not bothered about that. He’s never cared if people knew he really preferred men, and the further he distances himself from Thwaite’s world, the better.  
There’s a quiet voice in his brain though that says he’s being an idiot. Callum had probably only made the suggestion as a joke; he’s probably not expecting Ben to take him seriously. There’s no denying, though, that Ben’s feelings for Callum are leaching out onto the page the longer he writes the new character. He’s going to have to be careful, not give too much away. Reading over it again, he can see that it could almost be interpreted as a love-letter to the older man.  
It’s a conundrum, and his brain hurts as he contemplates it. He gets up and wanders aimlessly round his room, then goes into the bathroom to close the window there now that the steam from the shower’s dissipated, but he finds himself staring vacantly at his face in the mirror instead. What is it about him, that no one wants him on a deeper level? Oh, there’s any number of people who’ll take him on a physical level, but no one wants a more lasting connection. Is he that unpleasant an individual that he disgusts people? Is he more like his dad than he even realised? He just wants someone to really know him, really want him in spite of his flaws. He looks around at other people and sees them paired up, and wonders why they can do it if he can’t. Jack Branning manages it; hell, even that bloody Nancy woman’s probably got a doting husband back at home, and she was a nightmare.  
He hears a knock on the door to his room and his pulse quickens. He goes back out into the bedroom and crosses to open the door, sure it’ll be Callum come to tell him he’s made a huge mistake and he does want to carry on whatever tentative relationship Ben thought they’d started yesterday.  
He’d forgotten for a few seconds that he was an idiot. Or maybe hope is still too strong in him. It’s not Callum. It’s his breakfast delivery.

By the time Callum does tap on his door just before they need to set off for the panel session at the festival, Ben’s made further inroads into the burgeoning fascination of Foxton Thwaite for the young constable. In the absence of anything better to do, he’d thought he may as well continue with the story and see where it took him, and where it had taken him was the creation of a damning set of evidence that indicated just how far he, Ben Mitchell, had fallen for Callum in the time they’d known each other.  
Which makes it all the more embarrassing when he opens the door to the object of his desire. Callum is looking wary, as if he’s cautious of saying the wrong thing, and so they keep conversation to a minimum on the way to the festival venue.  
“Here’s the brief for yer session,” says Callum in the cab, handing over a sheet of notes. Ben looks it over, thankful to have something to do other than stare out of the window and avoid awkward conversation.  
"Masculinity and Martyrdom in Crime Fiction, chaired by Quentin McCreasy with panellists Ben Mitchell (author), Jack Branning (author) and Stella Heath (author and professor of feminist theory at Washington University)  
In this session we will explore the intersection of masculinity and martyrdom, looking at some key examples of the tortured male detective."  
It sounds a bit academic, especially given that there’s a proper professor on the panel. Ben’s just pleased, for once in his life, Jack Branning’s going to be there too. The older man can always be relied upon to lower the tone.  
“Uh, Ben,” says Callum, cutting in on his thoughts. “About earlier - ”  
“Already forgotten, Callum,” says Ben. “You don’t need to say nothin’.” He purposely doesn’t look at Callum’s expression. He doesn’t want to see the relief he’s sure will be on his face.  
“OK,” says Callum, his voice a lot quieter. He stares out of the window on his side of the cab for the rest of the journey.  
“Oh you have got to be kiddin’ me!” exclaims Ben when they walk into the green room for his event. Surely his day can’t get any worse?  
Standing next to the refreshments table, talking earnestly to Jack Branning, is the woman in the green dress from the Washington reception. Today, she’s wearing crimson, her auburn hair flowing loose around her shoulders. She glances round at their arrival and her face splits in a wide smile. “Hey you!”  
“Alright?” asks Ben, tipping his chin at Jack at the same time.  
“Oh! You two know each other already?” asks Jack, pointing between them.  
“Yup,” says Ben.  
“We have had the pleasure,” says the woman. Her voice becomes more husky. “Quite a lot of pleasure, in fact.”  
“You sure?” asks Jack, looking disbelieving. “With ‘im?”  
“What are you even doin’ ‘ere?” asks Ben.  
“I’m joining you both on the panel.”  
“You what?” Ben stares down at the briefing sheet he’d crumpled in his hand. “YOU’RE Stella Heath?”  
“I sure am, the one and only.”  
“But it says here yer a feminist,” says Ben.  
“Uh-huh.”  
“I would hardly call what ya did last time we met a feminist act.”  
“Oh my god!” chuckles Jack, enjoying the entertainment. “What the hell did she do?”  
“Right!” exclaims Callum, coming to Ben’s rescue as ever. “Drink, Ben?”  
“Yeah, get us a beer.”  
“Make that two, my fine-looking man,” comes a booming voice from behind them all.  
Ben had been mistaken when he’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse. If he’d not been sure he recognised this latest voice, the way Callum’s eyes narrow immediately tells him exactly who’s just arrived. He whirls around. “Gus Oliphant? What’re YOU doin’ ‘ere?”  
“Quentin’s called off sick, so I’m stepping in. I’ll be refereeing you guys today.” Gus crosses to stand next to Ben. Very close next to Ben. “It’s wonderful to see ya again, I’ve not been able to get you out of my mind.”  
“Hold on, hold on,” says Jack, looking more bemused by the minute. “I might be mistakin’ the sub-text here, but would I be right in thinkin’,” he points at Ben, “you’ve had two of the people in this room?”  
Callum brings across Ben’s beer and stumbles as he hands it across. Jack looks at the glance they exchange and begins sniggering. “No! Not you an’ all? Oh my god! Ben Mitchell, you dirty dog! You’ve had three out of the four people in this room?”  
Ben ignores the looks Stella and Gus throw each other, sizing one another up as if each is considering how best to kill the other without being detected. He ignores the guffaws that are now emitting from Jack bloody Branning. He only has eyes for the extremely shamefaced expression on Callum’s face. The older man is avoiding his eyes, and he needs him to look at him, needs to be able to put this right.  
“Oh my god!” exclaims Jack again. “Of course ya have! The first time I saw you two together - remember? In that restaurant back in Washington? You was tellin’ ‘im he had lovely eyes.”  
Was not!” says Ben. Stella and Gus both turn to glare at Callum.  
“This is like a bleedin’ crime novel,” laughs Jack. “Only thing is, you should’ve turned up dead, Ben, before all the people ya shagged were gathered together in a room by the detective.” He considers for a second. “I guess that would make me the detective. Unless you was plannin’ on seducin’ me an all?”  
“Leave it, Jack,” says Callum quietly, turning away and heading back over to the door.  
“This is hilarious,” says Jack. He’s the only one looking the slightest bit amused.  
“Callum, wait up!” calls Ben as Callum disappears out the door. He trots to catch up with him, and almost runs straight past him when he exits the room. Callum is leaning up against the wall just outside the door. He glances at Ben and then lets his gaze slide right past him.  
“Why are you upset?” asks Ben.  
Callum shakes his head, silently denying that he is.  
“You saw me get off with both of ‘em in there,” says Ben, pointing back towards the green room. “You knew I was a massive tart.”  
“Yeah, yeah, I knew,” says Callum, sounding angry for some reason. “I just didn’t wanna be another one in a long line of yer conquests.”  
“What? Well why d’ya sleep with me then? Why didn’t ya tell me to leave ya alone?”  
Callum raises his head and stares Ben right in his eyes. “Why d’ya think?”  
The look he’s giving Ben is hostile, accusing. It’s not the look of someone who’s falling in love with him. Ben shrugs. “No idea.”  
At his words, Callum huffs and rolls his eyes. “Just leave it, Ben. Go an’ get ready for yer appearance.” He walks off down the corridor without a backward glance.  
“Don’t walk away from me!” shouts Ben. “Oi! Callum, turn around, I’m talkin’ to ya.”  
There’s no response.  
“I pay yer fuckin’ wages, turn around!”  
Callum takes a left at the end of the corridor and is lost to view.

Afterwards, Ben wonders if the audience noticed the tensions between the four people up on stage for that event. The undercurrents were strong and threatened to pull him right under. Stella and Gus still staring daggers at each other; Jack still amused beyond belief at the whole thing, and Ben hating all three of them, as well as himself. Talk about masculinity and martyrdom! In the end, sick of the whole episode and increasingly riled by Stella’s attempts to paint Foxton Thwaite as a tired old stereotype, he’d snapped and said something he would probably regret, when his publisher got to hear about it: “Foxton Thwaite might be about to surprise you all. There’s gonna be a development in the new book that no one would have seen comin’.” The sub-text to his comment was ‘stick that in yer pipe and smoke it, ya stroppy feminist cow’, and there were murmurs of excitement around the auditorium at his pronouncement.  
He hadn’t stuck around after the obligatory signing session. He had no wish to act like the four of them were all best buddies at some boring drinks session, so he’d asked the venue to call him a cab and come away at the earliest opportunity. Callum had been nowhere to be seen all afternoon. He’d have to dock his wages and give him a warning for insubordination, the idiot.  
Now, Ben trudges the corridor towards his room, cursing himself for letting life get so complicated. If only he could keep it in his pants he’d be so much happier. Hornier, maybe, but happy with it.  
He hears footsteps behind him. Probably Callum, arrived in a separate cab and anxious to apologise for being such a diva. He speeds up, for some reason wanting to have gone into his room before Callum gets there; wanting to make him knock on the door and wait while Ben decides whether to let him in or not. The footsteps behind him speed up too.  
He inserts the key card in the lock and opens the door. The footsteps are right behind him now. He turns to face Callum, but before he can twist his head he feels a fierce blow to the side of his face. He crumples under its force and feels himself being bundled through the door to his room just as he blacks out.

TEN  
Ben is forced rudely awake by cold water being thrown in his face. He splutters and blinks it out of his eyes. He tries to raise a hand to wipe it away. Shit! He can’t move his arms, he’s been paralysed by the blow that knocked him out.  
No, wait! He struggles and realises his hands are tied behind his back. His ankles are restrained too. He’s half-lying on the floor, tied up next to the radiator. What the hell? His heart begins racing as he manoeuvres himself to a sitting position and looks around.  
There’s someone in the room with him. They’ve moved across to the bed and they’re hunched over with their back to him, fiddling with a laptop and muttering quietly to themselves.  
“Oi! What the hell d’ya think yer doin’?” demands Ben.  
At his voice, the figure turns round, and Ben’s eyes widen. “You?”  
“Don’t struggle, you might do yourself an injury,” says the English man. “You’re quite securely tied.”  
“You’re the bloke from the workshop!” says Ben. “Ya saved me from that crazy girl.”  
“I did.” The English man sits on the side of Ben’s bed. “Couldn’t let her have all the fun, could I? And besides which, dress-making scissors? Amateur, very amateur.” He shakes his head, looking disappointed. “Only third-rate stalkers use scissors. No, I ‘saved you’ because I needed you in one piece for what I had planned for you.”  
“Which is what?” asks Ben, a prickle of foreboding running down his spine.  
The man doesn’t answer. Instead he crosses his legs and links his fingers around his knees, getting comfortable.  
“We’ve met before.” He watches Ben carefully. “You don’t remember?” At Ben’s blank face he chuckles ruefully. “Why am I not surprised? You’re so wrapped up in yourself you see very little beyond the end of your nose. Arrogant, that’s what you are Ben.”  
“Who the hell are ya? Why should I remember ya?” asks Ben, spooked by the glib way in which the bloke uses his first name, claiming a familiarity Ben doesn’t want to grant him.  
“Oh I’m not gonna tell you,” says the man. “That would be too easy. I wanna watch you work it out. Wanna see how long it takes you.”  
“At least tell me yer name,” says Ben. After the initial panic, his research is beginning to kick back in. Book five: ‘Untimely Death’. As Foxton Thwaite had realised, in hostage situations you should try to create a bond with your captor. That way it makes it harder for them to …He blinks. He’s not going there. This bloke is not going to kill him. He’s just a crazy obsessed fan who’s got a little bit carried away. Ben can talk him round, he knows he can.  
“You know my name, Ben,” says the bloke. “I don’t need to tell you it again. You should’ve been listening the first time, shouldn’t you?” He watches, a smirk of pleasure creasing his face as Ben racks his brains. “That’s it. Try your hardest. Your future could depend on it.”  
“You ain’t gonna get away with this,” says Ben. “Me assistant’ll be back soon. He’s got a key to the room, he’ll let himself in.”  
“Ah yes, your assistant.” says the bloke. “He seemed a bit cross with you earlier.” He reaches behind himself and picks something up from the bed. “He won’t let himself in. You will tell him to go away, and you won’t give him any cause for concern. Understand?”  
“Fuck off!” says Ben. “I ain’t gonna do what you tell me.”  
“Oh I think you are.” The bloke moves so quickly Ben flinches. He flies across the room to kneel at Ben’s side and shoves a sharp steel blade against his throat. Ben gulps as he looks into the bloke’s eyes. They’re as cold and hard as the blade, and full of conviction.  
“I will kill you if you don’t do as I say. It won’t be much fun for me, because I’m hoping I can have a bit of conversation with you first, but if you want me to put you out of your misery so soon, just disobey me. See what happens.”  
Ben holds his breath. The blade is so close to his throat if he breathed out too hard he’s sure it would slice him. He closes his eyes and tries to control the tremors that are spreading throughout his entire body. “OK, OK, whatever ya say.”  
“Good. You’re a quick learner. There are more lessons you need to learn before I’m done with you.” The bloke pulls away and sits down beside Ben. “I must say, this is quite fun, having all the control now. Not like last time. You were totally in control then, weren’t you Ben?”  
Ben racks his brains. He knows he’s seen this man before, he just can’t work out where.  
“The thing about power,” continues the man, cosying up to Ben, “having power is quite a responsibility. You have to exercise it carefully, and I didn’t find that you did. You abused it, Ben. You abused your power.”  
“Did we sleep together?” asks Ben. “Is that what this is about? Cos I’m sorry if ya wanted somethin’ more, but I only ever do hook-ups. It ain’t nothin’ personal.”  
The man pulls away. “Don’t be disgusting! Of course we didn’t sleep together. What kind of man d’you take me for?”  
“Then what? Who the hell are ya?”  
“Joseph. I’m Joseph.”  
Ben frowns at him. “Is that supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”  
The man shrugs. He’s about to speak when there’s a knock on the door. Immediately, he places the knife against Ben’s throat again, signalling with his eyes that Ben had better not give anything away.  
“Ben? You in there?” The door rattles against its chain as Callum tries to open it. “Why ya got the chain on? Let me in, I wanna talk to ya.”  
“J-just leave me alone, Callum,” calls Ben, his voice sounding hoarse and weak. He clears his throat. “Leave me alone.”  
“I’m sorry for walkin’ off,” calls Callum. “I was upset. Let me in, I wanna explain, see if we can’t sort it out.”  
“I’m busy,” says Ben. “Writin’.” The bloke is breathing heavily into his face, smelling of cigarettes and something else, some underlying rottenness. Ben tries not to breath too deeply.  
“Later then, yeah?” calls Callum after a pause.  
“OK.”  
“You sure you’re OK?”  
“I’m perfectly alright.”  
Ben waits for Callum to get the hint. He braces himself in the silence that follows for him to break the door down. The wait is interminable, and then Callum calls, “OK. See you later then.”  
Ben lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and they listen as Callum closes the door and goes into his own room next door.  
“Aw, what a shame,” says Joseph, lowering the knife from Ben’s throat. “He’s obviously not read ‘Perfect End’, has he? Not a fan, clearly. But then I got that impression when I saw him with you earlier. Looked like he was treating you with as much contempt as you treated me. Maybe you picked the wrong candidate.”  
“You was followin’ me earlier?” asks Ben.  
“Yep. Been following you since you touched down on US soil. Did you ever find your suitcase, by the way?”  
“That was you? Then it was you who left my t-shirt outside me hotel room?”  
“It was. And the lipstick on the mirror. Amazing how the chambermaids will let you into any room if you spin them a story.” He sits back, looking pleased with himself. “Now that was a stroke of genius when I planned that, the lipstick. I bet you thought your stalker was a woman at that point, didn’t you? A scorned woman.”  
“And instead it was you, a scorned man,” says Ben, feeling like puzzle pieces are beginning to fit together in his head.  
“Ah, he’s finally getting it,” says Joseph. He stands up and crosses to the bed again. “Right, before we go any further, I’m going to read something to you. And you are going to listen. Carefully.”  
“What?” Ben struggles against the ties binding his hands.  
Joseph swings round again. “We ought to set some ground rules first, didn’t we? OK, here’s the deal. I am being very kind to you right now. I haven’t gagged you. I could, but I haven’t. So, you don’t raise your voice in any way, especially as your little friend is right next door. If you do, I gag you. If you yell for help, I slit your throat, OK? And believe me, I can do it much quicker than anyone can break that door down.”  
Looking directly into his eyes as he utters those words, Ben has no doubt that he means them. Fuck! How the hell is he going to get out of this? Fuck Callum for being the idiot Ben always suspected he was. How the hell had he not picked up on the code words? Hell, even psycho-Joseph had and Ben’s not entirely sure his brain isn’t wired completely wrong.  
Joseph turns back to his laptop and begins scrolling through documents. Finding the one he wants, he emits a small noise of satisfaction and comes to sit beside Ben again. “I’ve been writing a crime novel.”  
The penny drops at last. “Oh my god! I know who you are!”  
Joseph smiles. “Finally? It took you a lot longer than I expected. I have to say, I’m disappointed in you, Ben, and a little insulted, too.”  
Ben stares closer at the bloke. He’s looking a lot scruffier than he had when they first met. Uneven stubble dusts his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot. He’s no longer cocky and self-assured. Any confidence he wears now is brittle, like it’s the thinnest of veneers over something less stable. “You said you thought maybe I picked the wrong candidate,” says Ben. “YOU were a candidate too, weren’t ya? I interviewed you for the assistant job.”  
The bloke claps his hands together in a slow, sarcastic appreciation of Ben’s powers of detection. “And finally he gets it.” An ugly expression comes over his face as he brings it close to Ben’s. “That job was my big opportunity, Ben. I could’ve had access to so many agents, publishers, authors who would’ve been able to give me recommendations. It was mine. And you took it from me. You never even gave me a chance to make my case, you judged me within minutes, you arrogant bastard!”  
“I didn’t wanna - ”  
“DON’T speak when I’m talking! I hold the power now, me! You snuffed me out after less than half an hour. Well now I’m going to do the same to you. But first - .” He frowns and they lock bemused eyes as a series of noises comes from the bathroom.  
There’s a scraping sound, followed by a grunt and then a loud thud and a whispered curse. Whispered in the sense that it would probably only have been heard by half the population of Staten Island at the other end of the city. Immediately Joseph’s eyes dart wildly around the room before alighting on the complimentary dressing gown that’s hanging from the back of the door. He leaps towards it and rips away the belt. Twisting it in his hands he creeps towards the bathroom door and then flings it open and darts inside. The door swings shut behind him and Ben hears sounds of a scuffle, fists connecting with skin, and then a gagging sound.  
The door opens again and Callum walks slowly out, his hands grappling with the dressing gown belt that Joseph now has tight round his neck. There’s blood trickling down his face from a cut above his left eyebrow. He locks gaze with Ben and his eyes are full of apology.  
Joseph walks him over to where Ben is restrained and shoves at him. “Kneel!”  
Callum does as he’s told, the belt still tight round his neck. Joseph places a foot at his back and pushes him down until he’s lying on his front, and then fishes his knife from his back pocket. “Make one wrong move and I’ll stab you. Understand?”  
Callum makes a noise that indicates his agreement, and then Joseph kneels upon the small of his back, putting all of his weight on him. “Put your arms behind your back.”  
As Callum does so, Joseph places the knife between his teeth and removes the belt from Callum’s neck, then ties it tight around his wrists.  
“I’ll say the same to you as I said to him,” says Joseph. “Raise your voice and I’ll gag you. Shout for help and I’ll slit your throat. Both your throats. Understand?”  
Callum swallows hard and nods. “Yeah.”  
Satisfied, Joseph turns back to his laptop.  
Callum throws Ben another apologetic glance as he struggles to sit up, and Ben looks at him in disbelief. “WHAT was that?” he whispers. “Was it supposed to be some sort of rescue attempt?”  
“I climbed outta my bathroom window and in through yours,” says Callum. “I tried me best.”  
“Not exactly,” hisses Ben. “A herd of elephants would’ve bin quieter than you!”  
“We’re on the third floor, Ben, it was bleedin’ difficult.” Callum seems to think this is evidence of the lengths he was prepared to go to rescue Ben. He’s an idiot.  
“Did ya call the police before ya went climbin’?”  
Callum doesn’t need to answer. The look on his face is all that Ben needs to realise that they’re stuck here with no hope of rescue. He’s no better off than he was ten minutes ago. Probably worse off, in fact, because he has to share this ordeal with the world’s biggest idiot.  
He’d thought Joseph wasn’t listening, but now he throws Ben a sardonic smile. “And you chose him over me!” He sits on the bed in front of them and pulls his laptop onto his lap. “Right, I’m going to read to you from my latest work.”  
Ben groans inwardly.  
Joseph reads with the air of a Shakespearean actor reciting the finest poetry. It doesn’t take long for Ben to be cringing and silently hoping there’s a God who can release him from his torment. “This is shite,” he announces.  
Callum nudges him with his knee and throws him a hard glance, which is nothing to the look Joseph is casting him. He stops reading and grabs his knife.  
“I mean,” amends Ben quickly, “it’s THE shite. I can’t believe no one’s picked it up already. Who’ve you sent it to?”  
Joseph lowers the knife back onto the bed beside himself. “No one. I was gonna show it around when I started working for you.” He glares at Callum as he says it, then turns back to Ben with a plaintive look. “You really think it’s good?”  
“Definitely,” says Ben, throwing Callum a mini-glare of his own. “Yer choice of words is just…ground-breaking. I like the way you use grammar in a way that no one’s tried before. It’s…” he trails off, unable to think of the right word. “Ground-breaking,” he finishes feebly.  
The pleased smile on Joseph’s face makes him look like a little boy. “I’ll read you some more.”  
“No!” Ben clears his throat. “No, don’t give away yer plot points. I’m a competitor, remember.” It suddenly occurs to him again that he might not get out of this situation alive, ergo he may not be a competitor for much longer. “I can help ya with a strategy to get it published. I don’t need to hear the whole thing to do that. Just…”  
Joseph sits forward. “Just what?”  
“I need a pee. Let me do that before we start rackin’ our brains, yeah?”  
Joseph grimaces.  
“I’m gonna need some help,” Ben prompts, indicating his bound ankles. “At least untie me legs. Please?”  
Joseph looks reluctant, but eventually does as Ben asks. “Don’t try anything stupid, understand?”  
Ben nods. “You ain’t gotta worry. I’m keen to get started on that strategy for ya.” Unseen by Joseph, he rolls his eyes at Callum.  
Once untied, he leans heavily on Joseph as he helps him to his feet. His legs have become stiff so he stumbles as he makes his way to the bathroom. Once through the door he looks expectantly at Joseph. “Well?”  
“Well what?”  
“Me hands is tied behind me back, Joe. How’m I gonna get me dick out?”  
“Joseph!” corrects Joseph. “I’m not untying you, I’m not stupid.”  
“Well then,” says Ben, trying to conceal the grin that threatens to spread across his face. “Yer gonna have to get a bit handsy, ain’t ya?”  
There’s a pause, and then Joseph turns to pull a couple of sheets of toilet tissue off the roll. He slowly unzips Ben’s fly with a look of distaste, and fishes inside with his face pointing towards the ceiling, his fingers using the toilet paper as a shield.  
“There’s people who’d give their right arms to be in your position now,” says Ben.  
Joseph grunts, sounding unconvinced and slightly appalled.  
“Hold it straighter, can’t ya? I’ll be sprayin’ all over the place if ya don’t.”  
Ben waits until Joseph is in exactly the right position, his head bowed so he can see what he’s doing, and then brings his own head down as hard as he can on the other man’s. Joseph stumbles sideways with the force of the blow and falls heavily, his head cracking against the side of the bath tub. He’s out like a light.  
“Callum!” shouts Ben, cursing to himself at the pain that throbs through his temples. “Callum, get in ‘ere quick!”  
Callum appears in the doorway and his eyes widen as he sees Joseph on the floor. Then he looks at Ben and grimaces down at his trousers as he sees his state of undress. “Not again! I thought I’d seen the last of that.”  
“Never mind me little friend, grab the knife,” orders Ben. “Right, now hold it in yer hands and turn yer back. I’m gonna try and cut through whatever this is on me wrists, then I’ll do yours. Hurry up, he might come round any minute.”  
Callum locates the knife on the floor, turns and sits so that he can pick it up. He stands up again, holding it steady in both hands and Ben turns his back and begins sawing the ties around his wrists against it, working slowly so as not to cut himself. It takes an age; he’s not sure it’s going to work, but just as he’s losing hope, he feels something give. He carries on his actions with renewed enthusiasm and finally, his wrists come free. “Thank god!”  
He tucks himself back into his trousers and sets about untying Callum, keeping one eye on Joseph all the while. “Right, give us them ropes. We’ll tie him up now, see how he likes it.”  
“D’ya think he’s dead?” asks Callum, peering dubiously down at Joseph.  
“Nah, his chest’s risin’ and fallin’ look. Sit on him while I do him up nice and tight”  
Once they’re satisfied that Joseph isn’t going anywhere, Ben instructs Callum to call the police. “Remember it’s 911 over ‘ere.”  
“Yes thank you, I do know,” says Callum. “Not a complete idiot,” he mutters to himself as he dials the number.  
Call made, they head back into the bedroom and sit side by side on the bed to wait for the police, both of them only now realising the enormity of what they’ve been through.  
“Me head’s killin’ me,” says Ben, clutching it in his hands.  
“I thought he was gonna kill ya,” says Callum, with a catch in his voice. He sighs heavily and rubs at his wrists where the dressing gown belt had cut into them. “I’d thought I’d lost ya.” He throws an arm around Ben and pulls him in close to his side. “Don’t never leave me sight again, d’ya hear me?”  
“Would it have bothered ya, then? If he’d killed me?”  
Callum sounds astounded that he even has to ask. “Course it would! And not just cos any death is upsettin’. Yours would’ve bin particularly hard to deal with.”  
Ben pulls away and looks up at him. “Oh yeah?”  
“Course!”  
They stare at each other, both suddenly shaky after such an adrenaline rush. Ben feels like he can no longer hold himself upright, so he flops back onto the bed and Callum joins him a second later, covering him with his body and nosing gently at his cheek until he turns to accept a kiss.  
The kiss deepens as groans emanate from Joseph in the bathroom.  
“Shut up!” calls Ben. “Yer novel was shite an’ the police are comin’!” Then he concentrates on licking his way into Callum’s mouth. Maybe he’d got everything all wrong that morning. It feels like a hundred years ago now, with everything he’s been through.  
It feels right, being pinned down under the weight of Callum’s body, feeling him grow hard against Ben’s thigh, tasting the warmth of his mouth.  
“Withdraw yer notice,” Ben whispers against his lips. “Stay on with me after yer six months is up.”  
“Nah,” says Callum. “Not a chance.”

Eighteen months later  
The pink light of dawn is slowly chasing away the shadows across east London. It’s one of the things Ben’s always liked the best about his apartment, that you can sit on high and watch the days dawn and the seasons change and the weather systems scud across the cityscape.  
He adjusts his glasses and shifts around on the couch in the sunken seating area, making himself more comfortable, then goes back to the interview he’s reading on his laptop. It’s one he gave about a month ago, and it’s only just come out to coincide with the publication of his latest novel, ‘Coming out Fighting’.  
“In a gutsy move that’s stunned the crime fiction world, Ben Mitchell has reinvented his famous creation, Foxton Thwaite. The tough-guy detective has discovered his true nature late in life as Mitchell writes him falling for a young constable who helps him to investigate his latest case. And not just any young constable. Where lesser novelists would have had Thwaite fall for a nubile young WPC, Mitchell has sent him in another direction, breathing new life into the tired old trope of the hoary old detective, nearing the end of his career and unsurprised at anything life has left to throw at him.  
Instead, Thwaite is probably as surprised as anyone when he realises his feelings for Constable Johnathan Hardy.  
In developing his character in this way, Mitchell has stolen a march on his rivals by making his creation at once familiar and achingly cutting edge. It’s a true stroke of genius that will breath additional life into the franchise.  
We caught up with Mitchell in a trendy wine bar just around the corner from his apartment in east London. Wearing jeans and a comfy-looking cream sweater, he accepts our congratulations with grace. He seems at peace with the world in a way that will surprise his most ardent of fans, accustomed as they are to his previous downbeat cynicism with life.  
“I think sometimes you just have to make that leap of faith,” he says, explaining the thought process behind this most astounding change of direction for his character. “You can stay safe, or you can take a chance, and when you get it right, that’s when the magic happens.”

Elsewhere in the apartment Ben hears the bedroom door open and close, and quickly pulls up the new chapter he’s working on.  
“You reading yer adoring press again?” asks Callum through a yawn as he comes into the living area in boxers and a t-shirt.  
“Nope, workin’ hard,” says Ben. “There’s coffee in the pot.”  
“Lovely!” Callum pours himself a mugful and comes across to sit beside Ben, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “Love ya.”  
“Yeah? How much?”  
“Enough to climb out a third floor window for ya.”  
Ben pretends to consider. “Hmm, not enough to work for me though.”  
His comment elicits a groan from Callum. “We’ve bin through this!” He gestures between the two of them. “We wouldn’t work if you was me boss. We’d kill each other within a month.”  
“Yeah, but workin’ for the enemy, that’s just - ”  
“Jack Branning ain’t the enemy! He told me again last week he was glad you hadn’t bin killed by that psycho. He kinda likes ya. You’ve just gotta learn that there are some people in the world that think yer alright.”  
“Weirdos,” says Ben.  
“Yeah, total weirdos,” agrees Callum. “You gonna be workin’ all day? Should I make meself scarce?”  
Ben puts his laptop to one side and turns to give Callum his full attention. “See, that’s where Jack Branning’s goin’ wrong. Givin’ the hired help holiday, that’s just askin’ for trouble, ain’t it?”  
“Certainly is,” agrees Callum. “I could be gettin’ up to all sorts of mischief.”  
“You could.” Ben takes his face in his hands and kisses him. “Specially if there’s someone around that could lead ya astray. You fancy seein’ me cock?”  
Callum pretends to weigh up his options. “Yeah, go on then.”  
“C’mon then, back to bed with ya, sexy.” Ben takes him by the hand and leads him back to the bedroom. He pauses on the threshold and turns back to Callum. “I love you an’ all, ya know.”


End file.
